Of Small Boys and Sandwiches
by Gypsy Rose2014
Summary: A letter from the infamous Irene Adler reveals that a small boy raised in a convent is the product of a particularly productive dinner date. Will five year old Gabriel be a blessing or Sherlock's 'just desserts' ParentLock- no JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I was challenged by a friend a while back to write a ParentLock story and as I'm getting nowhere on any of my other projects, I decided to give it a go. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I'm pretty prolific, so there should be updates often. Hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters contained within, with the exception of Gabriel. **

1: The Arrival

Anthea thought about how there wasn't enough money in the entirety of the Queen's treasury to pay her for what she'd been through tonight. There was nothing in her job description that said being a nursemaid to an unruly child was a required duty. Once again, she'd succumbed to Mycroft's charm and promises of a sizeable Christmas bonus.

"Don't touch that," she snapped at the small boy who slumped across from her on the seat, playing with the buttons on his armrest. He stared at her, opening his blue eyes wide and raising an eyebrow as he let the window down once more. An evil grin crossed his features as he waved his arm out of the window to feel the chill autumn breeze against his skin. Anthea rolled her eyes and used her own controls to close the window, the glass narrowly missing the boy's arm as he jerked it away.

"That wasn't very nice!" the boy grumbled.

"I'm not a very nice girl," she replied, taking up her phone. She opened her text folder and found several from Mycroft:

"_Take the boy to 221 B Baker Street."_

"_Tell my brother as little as possible."_

"_No word on Miss A. We can only assume she is deceased."_

Anthea sighed. It was true that she didn't care much for her employer's snarky younger brother, but even Sherlock didn't deserve to be saddled with such a beast. Since they'd managed to track him down at the old convent, he'd been one disaster after another. Kicking and screaming to stay at the convent, refusing to take a bath, splashing mud all over her new dress… Anthea was not cut out for motherhood, that was clear.

"Where are we going?" the boy asked with an exasperated sigh. "I'm hungry."

"I'm taking you home," she replied, not looking up from her mobile.

"Back to the convent?"

"No. Your real home."

"My real home was St. Christopher's." The boy crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Anthea. She almost felt sorry for the kid. He'd been raised by those nuns as long as he could remember and now his entire life had been turned upside down. He was going to a strange place where he knew no one, a new home he'd never seen and was expected to live with a man he'd never met. Not to mention that it was pretty clear that Mycroft had said very little to Sherlock. He may not even believe that the child was his son.

Anthea leaned forward and took the boy's hand. "Look, Gabriel, I know that all of this seems bleak, but if you give it a chance, you may find that it's the best thing that ever happened to you." He started to grumble a reply when the car screeched to a halt in front of a narrow black door. "We're here," Anthea said, dropping Gabriel's hand.

Gabriel stepped out of the car and stared up at the cold brick building. He covered his ears, the noise of the cars rushing by was so loud. The woman who brought him here paused to pull his overnight bag out of the boot and then took his hand. He stared at it, considering whether he should take it or continue muffling the frantic sounds of the cars behind him. He chose the latter and rushed toward the door. 221B, the door screamed with its gold lettering. Gabriel had heard the tall man with the cold eyes say that was where he was going. The woman handed him his bag and briskly knocked the brass clapper against the black door. At first no one answered and Gabriel was sure that no one was home. He started to relax a bit and even smiled at the thought that they might actually take him back to St. Christopher's. It was hours away, but that would be hours away from this noisy, busy place. At that moment, a police car rushed by with its siren blaring. Gabriel let out a little whimper and dropped his bag, covering his ears again.

"What's wrong?" the woman asked.

"Too loud," he whined, pointing at the street behind them. "This place is too loud!" He was on the verge of a meltdown. His heart beat faster and suddenly the air around him was thin. "I want to go home!" he shouted, his hands now pulling at his messy, overgrown curls. Just as Gabriel was about to launch into a full blown fit, the door before them opened and a tiny old lady peeked out.

"Something wrong, dear?" she asked. Gabriel stopped, looking into the old woman's face. It was a kind face, worn with the creases of age, but kind. She knelt down to be on the child's level, addressing him rather than the tall woman. "Who might you be?"

"It's too loud," Gabriel replied.

"Well that's London for you," the old lady replied, standing to her full height and turning to the tall woman. "Good evening, Anthea."

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Anthea replied, offering a terse smile. "Is Mr. Holmes in? We need to see him."

"Of course, dear. Just come right in before you catch a chill." She took Gabriel's hand in one of hers and his bag in the other, not giving him a chance to protest, and led them inside. Anthea closed the door behind them and followed Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. "Sherlock!" the older woman called as they started up to the second floor. Gabriel's short legs struggled up the steep staircase and he kept a tight grip on Mrs. Hudson's hand.

Gabriel's eyes were everywhere as they reached the top of the stairs. The flat was cluttered, but looked almost cozy. A fire blazed in the hearth across from them and Gabriel was glad. It had been so cold outside. A couple of armchairs and a couch that looked like it had been salvaged from a rummage sale were thrown a bit haphazardly about. He peeked around Mrs. Hudson and noticed that all manner of scientific looking bits and bobs were strewn across every available surface in the kitchen. Gabriel felt a little twinge of excitement, wanting to examine and touch everything, including the microscope that sat so precariously on the tabletop. "What happened to the wall?" Gabriel asked, pointing to where a funny yellow smiley face had been painted on the matronly wallpaper.

"I shot it." All three turned to see the man standing in the hallway. He was tall and thin, wearing a dark suit cut close, making his narrow form look even taller and thinner. Despite his earlier surliness, Gabriel took a step behind Mrs. Hudson and closer to Anthea. The newcomer was intimidating with the same cold, narrow eyes as the man who'd taken him from St. Christopher's.

"Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson started. "Don't frighten the boy."

"I was simply answering the boy's question," Sherlock answered dryly. He walked over to Gabriel and stared down at him. Those cold, calculating eyes seemed to take in the small boy, examining every centimeter with a clinical interest. "Well there's surely no doubt as to his lineage, that's for sure. Dark hair with little regard for a brush, blue eyes obviously affected by heterochromia, large feet and hands for a child of five and mathematically speaking there would be no denying him, I suppose."

"Mathematically?" Anthea asked.

"Of course. Given that the boy is just over five years of age, count back nine months from there, give or take a few days and that would match up to the period of time I spent with his mother. Simple."

Anthea could only nod and then moved on to rummaging in her bag. She came up with a sealed envelope, slightly singed around the edges and handed it to Sherlock. "We found this in a locked box at a burned out house in Faringdon. It should explain everything." She patted Gabriel on the head, tousling his hair roughly. He hated that. "I must be off. Good luck." And before anyone could stop her, she was gone. Gabriel thought about running down the stairs after her, begging her to take him back to St. Christopher's but something about the stranger's presence kept Gabriel rooted to his spot. He watched as the stranger pocketed the large envelope and straightened his jacket.

"I'm Sherlock," he said, offering his hand to the child. Gabriel stared at it and then looked at Mrs. Hudson for reassurance. The old woman smiled warmly and nodded. The boy reluctantly took his hand and shook it. "This is Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, the arc of his eyebrow indicating that Gabriel should say hello.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Gabriel said, mimicking Sherlock and offering his hand. She took it and knelt down to the little boy.

"What's your name, little one?" she asked, her voice considerably more gentle than the deep menacing tone of Sherlock's.

"My name is Gabriel. After the angel."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Hudson cooed. "And are you as sweet as an angel?"

He giggled. "I don't know."

"I'll bet you are," she replied, patting the back of Gabriel's hand. "Oooh… your hands are cold. Why aren't you wearing a coat?"

"I don't have a coat," Gabriel replied, looking almost ashamed. He was cold, almost shivering in the freezing November air. At St. Christopher's they hadn't had much money and he had outgrown the threadbare coat he'd been given last year.

"Well then we'll have to sit you down by the fire and warm you up," she said, leading him past Sherlock and over to the fire. "You just sit right down here and I'll bring you a nice cup of cocoa and a couple of biscuits." The old woman disappeared down the stairs and that roiling feeling in his stomach started all over again. He heard some papers rustling. Sherlock stood behind him, reading the letter left in the scorched envelope. He made no sound and his face offered no clue as to what the letter said. Gabriel assumed that it was something about him. A letter explaining how this man was his father and that now he would have to live here in this noisy, busy place. Perhaps it would also explain why his mother had decided to leave him all alone with strangers.

"Sherlock!" Gabriel was startled at the sound of another deep voice echoing through the flat. Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs as whoever it was took them two at a time. "Sorry, I'm late. I had this lady come into the surgery right at the end. She was in labor and I thought…" He stopped short, seeing Gabriel sitting by the fire.

"John, this is Gabriel," Sherlock replied, not looking up from the letter.

"Hello, mate," the one called John said, cheerfully offering his hand to the little boy. "I'm John Watson."

"Do you live here too?" Gabriel asked.

"I do. Sherlock and I share the flat. My room is upstairs."

"Oh."

"How old are you, Gabriel?" John asked.

"I'm five. I guess."

"You guess? Don't you know?"

"Well, we never really had birthdays at St. Christopher's. Sister Margaret told me that I was five before I went with the tall man."

"The tall man?" John chuckled. "Who is the tall man?"

"The one that said I had to come live here."

"Mycroft, obviously," Sherlock mumbled. He folded the letter and stuffed it back into the scorched envelope before tossing it onto the counter at his side. "Did he say anything else to you?"

Gabriel shrugged. He wasn't sure how to address Sherlock and every time he asked him a question, Gabriel felt those little nervous flutters in his stomach again. "He just told me that my mum was dead and I'd have to live with my father."

"Charming," John grumbled. "Mycroft makes Adolph Hitler look warm and compassionate."

To Gabriel's relief, Mrs. Hudson came bustling back up the stairs with a tray of biscuits and cups. "I brought tea for everyone except the boy," she said. "You, my good man," she started, handing a cup to Gabriel, "get my extra special hot cocoa." He smiled. He thought he was going to like Mrs. Hudson.

"Nevermind that just yet," Sherlock sighed, taking the cup from the boy's hands. "Before this goes any further we should have an understanding. We do have rules here."


	2. Uncertainty

**A/N: Thanks for all the follows, favorites and reviews! They are very much appreciated! Sorry that it took so long to get this up, but I attended a writer convention this weekend and I didn't have much time. That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's quite a bit longer! :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Gabriel. **

Looking down at Gabriel, Sherlock felt a shiver down into the marrow of his bones. It was truly like looking into the past and seeing yourself at age five. In fact, he could barely see any of Irene whatsoever. Perhaps the scattering of freckles across his nose or the way the corner of his mouth pricked up just a little when he spoke, but otherwise Gabriel could have been a clone. "There are several of us living here and we aren't really equipped for children. So you'll have to amuse yourself and try not to bother anyone…"

"Sherlock," John started. "He's just a kid. I'm sure he won't be much of a bother."

"Still. I have no use for children who can't be seen and not heard." His own stomach flipped a little as he heard his father's voice coming out of his mouth. He'd heard that same speech over and over as a child and had sworn he'd never use that expression. Apparently humans are doomed to grow up as copies of their parents. For good or ill. He cleared his throat and started off toward the stairs. "Up you get. Your room is this way." He reached down and picked up the small overnight bag that the boy had brought with him. "Is this all you have?"

"Yes," Gabriel replied simply. "I had to leave most stuff behind." He stood up and began to follow Sherlock up the stairs, looking back over his shoulder at John with a helpless expression, his eyes pleading for him to follow.

"Rule one: these stairs are uneven and noisy. Running down them will end in disaster. Don't do it." The words had no sooner left his lips than Sherlock stumbled on the stairs and had to steady himself with a hand on the wall. "See?" He pointed toward a room on one side of the stairs. "That's John's room. If you hear strange laughter in the middle of the night coming from behind that door, just ignore it. Whatever you do, don't open the door."

"Oi! No need to be crude," John interjected.

Sherlock paid him no mind as he crossed the hall and turned the knob at the other bedroom door. It was stiff and he had to push it hard with his shoulder before the door would open. A tiny, dark room lay behind the door and Gabriel shied from it. There was a small bed, a lamp and a little dresser that Mrs. Hudson had brought up from the basement. The furniture had once belonged to her son but she had been keen to donate it when they'd heard of Gabriel's existence the week before. He set the boy's case down on the bed and turned. "This is your room."

"Where do you sleep?" Gabriel asked.

"My room is downstairs."

"Oh. I've never had my own room before." The boy was obviously disturbed at the thought of sleeping alone. His eyes were everywhere and enormous. "At the convent, I had to stay in the room with the postulants."

"Then this should be like Heaven," John said, wiping dust from his sleeve. "A little paint and it will be perfect, right?" Gabriel shrugged.

"When someone addresses you, you answer them," Sherlock said, wincing at his father's voice once more issuing from his throat and from his own hypocrisy. Anyone who knew Sherlock was well aware that he often didn't answer.

"I guess," Gabriel replied.

"Come." Sherlock rushed past them and made his way back downstairs, assuming they would follow. They emerged in the kitchen area, cluttered with what, to an outsider, would look like Dr. Frankenstein's lab. Beakers, graduated cylinders, eye droppers and the like were strewn over every surface. Papers, notebooks, photographs and books were everywhere. "Rule two: don't touch anything in this room with the possible exception of the refrigerator. If it looks interesting, it probably is and therefore no affair of children. The stove and range are also not for you. Keep away from them." Gabriel nodded and followed Sherlock into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson and John stood there whispering and looking sadly at the boy. Sherlock knew what they were thinking. That he should have told Mycroft to find another home for Gabriel. That he would never be able to take care of a child. And why shouldn't they think that? He wasn't warm or playful. He often didn't pay attention and his life was far too frantic and violent for a small child. That was why Irene had never told him of the boy in the first place. According to her letter, she had left the boy at St. Christopher's convent when he was ten days old, realizing that she was in no position to care for him. She stated that it would have been useless to send the boy to London, knowing that he wasn't exactly 'parenting material.'

"There's a television, if you like that sort of thing. And more books than the Kensington Central Library. As long as you don't move any of the books on my desk or on the table, do what you like."

The small boy stared up at him with his round blue eyes. It was as if he were speaking some foreign language, but Sherlock didn't see the point in talking to children as if they were adorable little morons. "Oh, and rule three: never interrupt me while I'm thinking. This includes talking, jumping on things, climbing on furniture and sometimes watching telly. Sometimes I don't talk for days and other times I talk to myself." He leaned over the armchair and pulled his violin down from where it balanced on the edge of the coffeetable. "Most important rule: Never. Ever. Never touch my violin. Trust me on this. Never. Understood?" They boy nodded, still giving Sherlock that fearful stare. "Well, I think that's that, then." He patted Gabriel awkwardly on the head. He rushed to the doorway and pulled on his coat.

"Are you leaving?" Gabriel asked, his voice small and quavering.

"I have an appointment," he answered. "But don't worry. Mrs. Hudson and John will be here. Have some cocoa. Eat some...biscuits." He forced a smile as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Don't wait up."

And with that he was down the stairs and gone.

Gabriel sat down in the armchair closest to the fire, pulling his knees under his chin and hugging himself. If it was possible, he was more confused and frightened than he had been before. Though St. Christopher's had been a cold, dreary place where he'd been largely ignored, he missed it tonight. He missed the garden behind the kitchen that always smelled of rosemary. He missed the peat fire in the dining hall. He missed the sounds of the church bells every morning at sunrise. Mostly he just missed the familiarity.

"What do you like to eat, Gabriel?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll fix whatever you like tonight, since it's your first night here. It will be like a little celebration for you, dear!"

"I don't know," he replied with a shrug. It wasn't a lie. Gabriel honestly didn't know what he liked to eat. No one had ever asked him and everything the Sisters cooked tasted the same. Extravagant food was not Godly and therefore unnecessary. "I like apples." It was all he could think of. There had been a tree in the corner of the garden that had the sweetest apples. Some mornings while he was outside, he'd pick up some of the fallen ones and eat it before anyone could catch him. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to take them and he didn't want to be in trouble.

"Then apples you shall have, love," Mrs. Hudson chirped before disappearing down the stairs again, leaving Gabriel alone with John.

"You're in for a treat, my friend," John said. "Mrs. Hudson is an excellent cook. Sherlock's not much for eating but even he can't resist when she decides to cook."

"Is she your maid?"

John laughed. "No. Most definitely not. She's the landlady. You know, she owns the house. We rent the flat from her."

"Oh."

John looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead just grabbed the remote for the television and began flipping channels. Gabriel was silent, yet fascinated by the images flashing on the screen. Sure, he had seen telly before. The caretaker at the church had a tiny one in his little cabin on the grounds, but Gabriel had never seen one this big. Nor had he ever been allowed to watch too much. The convent didn't have anything like that. The Mother Superior had a radio that she would sometimes bring into the common room, but that was it. She said that they shouldn't concern themselves with outside entertainment. John stopped on a show where a tall, thin man with messy hair was driving a phone booth. There was lots of noise and lights and Gabriel squinted against the oppressive action. He whimpered softly and John turned to look at him.

"Don't you like Doctor Who?" John asked.

"It's kind of loud," he replied.

John smiled. "It can be, yeah." He turned the volume down and Gabriel relaxed a little, his eyes glued to the screen. He became so engrossed in the story, that he didn't notice when Mrs. Hudson returned from her flat with a tray full of food. The smell was heavenly. A sweet, spicy smell that made Gabriel's mouth water.

"All right, dears. I cooked, you set the table!"

John immediately crossed the room and began clearing the mess of experiments off the tabletop. Gabriel continued to sit, paying them little mind until John cleared his throat. "Gabriel, would you mind helping us?" The little boy nodded, sliding off the chair and going into the kitchen. "We'll need three forks and three napkins," John instructed, opening the drawer and showing him where they were. "Put one of each at every place." Gabriel very carefully set the table with utensils as John followed behind with plates and cups.

"Don't we need another?" Gabriel asked.

John and Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Sherlock won't be back in time to eat, most likely. We'll just leave some leftovers in the fridge for him."

"Why don't he eat?"

John smiled. "We're not sure, but we think he _doesn't_ eat because he's an alien." When the boy's eyes went wide with alarm, both adults laughed again. "I'm just kidding, Gabriel. He just gets busy."

"Oh." Gabriel's eyes fell and he sat down in the chair closest and slumped over the table.

"Elbows, dear," Mrs. Hudson corrected, patting him on the arm until he sat up. She began fixing his plate with chicken and vegetables. He watched, examining each dish as it was plated up for him. "You said you liked apples, so I've made cinnamon ones. But they're awfully sweet, so you should eat the rest of your food first."

Once everyone was seated and plates were piled with food, they began to eat. Mrs. Hudson and John began to chatter about their day. It seemed that they were trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Gabriel looked at the food with trepidation, pushing it around with his fork and examining each component. It was not like the food at the convent. Everything there was bland and always the same color. He stabbed his meat with the fork and tried to pull off a bit. It didn't work very well and after a bit of a struggle, he began pulling it apart with this fingers and shoving the bites into his mouth.

"Oh… let me help you with that, mate," John said, shifting the boy's plate toward him and using his knife to cut it apart. Gabriel watched him, wondering why he was going to the trouble. He didn't mind using his hands. When John was finished and pushed his plate back toward him, Gabriel continued poking around at the bites.

"Do you like it, dear?"

Gabriel shrugged, not really knowing what to say. It had an interesting flavor, but the seasoning was more than he was used to. He didn't want to hurt Mrs. Hudson's feelings, but he wasn't sure what they wanted him to say. It was all very confusing. "I'm done," he said finally.

"Gabriel, you've hardly eaten anything," John commented. "Mrs. Hudson made all this food for you. And cinnamon apples…"

"I'm not hungry," he said. "Can I go up to my room?"

John and Mrs. Hudson looked at one another, exchanging puzzled glances. "Uhm… yeah…" John answered. "We'll just save it for you."

"Thank you," Gabriel replied, pushing back from the table.

He went up to his room, carefully stomping up the uneven stairs. He was glad to be away from everyone. Not that John and Mrs. Hudson weren't kind. Both had done everything in their power to make him feel welcome, but he couldn't help still being terrified. He opened the door on the dingy little room that had been deemed his own and began to tremble, realizing how dark it was. In the convent, there had always been a candle or lamp burning in the rooms, but it was perilously dark upstairs in 221B. He looked back over his shoulder, considering calling for John to come and turn on the light. Of course then, he'd have to talk to him and he didn't want to be a bother or seem like a baby. Gabriel was only five, but he'd never really been allowed to be a child. He was wise, too wise, even. He stepped into the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He pawed at the doorframe, hoping that the light switch was right there. He had to stand on the tips of his toes, but finally he found it.

When the room was illuminated, it wasn't any less daunting. The tiny little bed that had been made up for him looked sterile. The room was chilly, smelling of dust and mold. He wondered if this room would even seem like his own. At St Christopher's, he'd had a small bed and a locker, like the young postulants. It wasn't much, but at least when he'd curled up on the little bed, he'd felt that this one place, this tiny island, was his own. Here he had this whole room, but he felt like he wasn't supposed to touch anything. He knew that Sherlock, the man who was supposed to be his father, only allowed him to stay because he had to. Gabriel might live in his house, but it would never be his home.

He went to the window and stared out. The light outside had faded and a light rain had begun to fall, wetting the street below. Cars and people still bustled about, clutching raincoats and umbrellas. It was so busy. Gabriel wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. There was just too much. Thoughts and emotions rushed around in his head all the time and he couldn't slow them down and now he was expected to live in a place where people swarmed like bees all the time. Would he be able to learn to block them out? Would he ever be able to sleep? Would Sherlock make him go to school like the kids he'd seen in the schoolyard down the road sometimes? If cried, would it make him angry? If he was bad would this new father beat him? What if he forgot all his new rules? The questions and uncertainty swirled faster and faster until Gabriel was pulling at his hair once more. He threw himself on to the bed and began to weep quietly. He buried his face in the pillow, not wanting anyone to hear, and cried until his eyes were burning and the skin on his cheeks felt tight.

John quickly helped Mrs. Hudson clear the table and wrap up the leftovers for Sherlock and Gabriel. "You know, I'm not sure this was the best idea Mycroft ever had."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"I mean, do you think Sherlock is up for this? I know that it's the law. Once they learned of the boy's existence, they had to at least give Sherlock the option of taking him in. After all, he is his father, but Sherlock can barely take care of himself."

"You might be surprised. Sherlock's always been a little odd, but underneath he's really very kind. He puts on a good show of being an uncaring machine, but you and I both know that he's not really like that. Once you're his, once he takes you in, he'll move Heaven and Earth to protect you." She raised her eyebrow at John, offering a knowing glance. "You and I know that better than anyone."

"It's the getting him to take Gabriel in that worries me."

"Oh pish-posh… he already has. Did you look at the child? There's no denying that he's Sherlock's. I don't particularly like the idea of him having a child with that harlot, Irene Adler, but it's obvious that's what happened."

"But why wouldn't she tell him about it before?" John sighed. "You saw Sherlock's face when Mycroft told him the other night—he was shocked. She kept the secret for five years? Why?"

"Would you want to tell Sherlock a thing like that?"

John thought about it for a moment. He didn't even want to tell Sherlock when he broke a plate. "Point taken."

"Obviously she didn't think that either of them were capable of taking care of poor little Gabriel, so she left him at that convent. Now that she's gone, Gabriel is all that's left of her and despite our misgivings about her, Miss Adler was his one great love. Aside from you, anyway."

"What?" John's voice climbed an octave. Surely Mrs. Hudson didn't still believe they were a couple.

"Don't be silly, John. Sherlock does love you. Probably more than anyone else. It's not anything… you know… _sexual_. You accept him for all that he is, both good and bad. You've taught him so much, John. And that little boy up there is the exam." She winked and embraced John, taking her tray of empty dishes from him and going back downstairs.

John started toward the television, prepared to settle in for a quiet night. Perhaps he'd make himself a cup of tea. Before he could put the kettle on, he heard a small sound coming from upstairs. He paused, holding his breath to see if he heard it again. Surely if Mrs. Hudson had fallen on the front stairs, she'd have made a bigger noise. Another whimper sounded and John realized it was coming from upstairs. "Gabriel?" he called, starting up the steps.

The boy hadn't bothered to close his door and when John reached the top of the stairs, he could see him lying on his bed crying. "Gabriel? Are you all right?" The little boy rolled over and John could see that his eyes were swollen and red from crying. "What's the matter, mate?"

"Nothing," Gabriel replied.

"I don't think I believe that," John said, sitting down on the end of the bed. The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes on the dirty sleeve of his shirt. "Why are you crying, Gabriel?"

"I don't like it here!" the boy spat. "Everything here is different! The food is different and the house is different and everything is too big and too loud! And…" His voice trembled as more tears bubbled over his cheeks and ran down. "You and Mrs. Hudson are only nice to me because you have to be! And Sherlock hates me!" He covered his face and cried harder. John scooted closer to the little boy and, not knowing what else to do, put his arms around Gabriel's small frame and rocked him gently. The boy tensed, becoming like a statue in John's arms.

"Shush… I know it's different. It will get better, you know. And Mrs. Hudson and I are nice to you because we like you."

"No you don't! The tall man said you had to be nice to me!" He jerked away from John, not wanting to be touched.

"No, Mycroft said we had to let you live here, not that we had to be nice. We only want to be your friend, Gabriel. Sherlock too."

At the mention of his father's name, Gabriel's wails got louder. "No he doesn't! He hates me! Why else would he let my mom leave me?"

John put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Is that what you think happened? If Sherlock had known about you, he'd never have let that happen. He might be many things, but irresponsible isn't one of them. Well, not about important things anyway. You just have to give him a chance, Gabe. This is brand new for him too."

Gabriel sniffled. "Then why isn't he here now?"

"Well, Sherlock has to think about things sometimes. It's just how he is. And he needs to be alone to do that. He'll be back soon. I promise everything will be fine." John hugged the little boy again and this time, Gabe let him.


	3. Understanding

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reads, reviews and follows. I'm honored and humbled that you're so interested in my little experiment. Do keep reading and I'll keep writing. We all need a little fluff every now and then. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, save for Gabriel.**

There is a God and He is merciful, Sherlock thought as he crept up the stairs and into the flat. All was dark, save for the flicker of the television. John must have forgotten and left it on when he went to bed. "Jesus, is this all they ever show on telly anymore," he growled, fumbling for the remote and quickly extinguishing the Doctor Who marathon. He pulled his scarf and coat off, throwing them carelessly across his chair. The events of the day played out in his head and he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to slow the whirlwind of thoughts that were threatening to drive him mad. He had told everyone that he had an appointment with a client, but that wasn't true. He'd been walking around London for the last couple of hours. Just walking, hoping that the crisp autumn air would clear his mind and the solution to this new puzzle would present itself.

He had a child. Him… Sherlock Holmes, had a child. The concept didn't make any sense. He'd spent his entire life avoiding romantic entanglements and the one time… the _one_ time he let his guard down… this happened. It was supposed to be a secret. A one time thing that neither of them would ever have to think about again. It was just after the incident in Karachi. Sherlock had helped her find a tiny little flat in a town just south of Florence where he knew she'd be safe. There was something intensely romantic about the Italian countryside and even he couldn't deny it. A late night dinner and two bottles of wine later, he'd succumbed to her advances. After all, despite everyone's imaginings, Sherlock was indeed just a man. The next day he'd been back on a plane bound for London, prepared to completely forget all about that night. And it would have worked if it wasn't for this… accident.

Sherlock walked over to the fridge and peered inside. Little dishes of leftovers were piled inside and he poked at them curiously. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had felt generous and cooked dinner. John could never have accomplished this. He took the little plastic container full of baked apples and pulled the top off. The spicy, sugary scent made his stomach growl. Plucking a fork from the dish drainer, he sat down at the table and began working his way through the apples. He smiled, remembering how this had always been his favorite as a little boy. It was the only thing his poor mother could make. He'd nearly eaten the entire bowl when he heard the last step on the back stairs groan. He looked up, expecting to see John, but instead seeing the small boy staring at him with those enormous blue eyes.

"Hello, Gabriel," he said. "It's late. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I couldn't go to sleep," the boy replied.

Sherlock shrugged. "Sleep is overrated for adults, but it's my understanding that children need it."

Gabriel climbed into the chair opposite his father, getting up on his knees to make himself taller. "You ate all the apples." Sherlock looked down at the container and swallowed, feeling guilty. "Mrs. Hudson made them for me."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I wasn't really hungry anyway." Gabriel leaned forward and took Sherlock's phone in his pudgy little hand. "What's this?"

"It's my mobile phone."

"Oh," the little boy replied, turning the device over in his hands and examining all the parts. "I've never seen one up close."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. How could anyone, even a five year old, have never seen a mobile before. "I see. Well don't drop it. They're expensive."

"We didn't have a lot at St. Christopher's. Just regular stuff. The sisters always said that we didn't need things like phones and televisions. Sometimes the new postulants would sneak their things in, but the Mother Superior always found out."

"Were there any other children there?" Sherlock had a million questions for the small boy. Anything to figure him out.

"No. Just me. There was a school down the road and I saw those kids sometimes, but I wasn't allowed to play with them."

"Didn't you go to school there?"

"No. I never been to school. The sisters said all I needed to learn was the Bible and how to count."

"I see." Sherlock rose from the table and filled the electric kettle on the counter with water. "So what did you do there?"

"Usually I just helped in the garden. Mostly they just left me alone." Sherlock nodded and rummaged around for a teacup in the dish drainer. He was familiar with that approach. As a child, most adults had simply left him alone. It was easier than trying to relate to the hyperactive, brooding boy he'd been. He wasn't sweet and had learned from an early age that affection was not going to be reciprocated. His father thought it would make him weak. Sherlock had also been a sickly little boy and his father believed that the only cure was to toughen him up. And once his parents separated, his mother retreated so far inside herself that Sherlock and Mycroft may as well have not even existed. They'd both been sent to boarding school by their father, but Sherlock never lasted long. His father, before his death, had always introduced his younger son by saying that he'd been thrown out of some of the most prestigious schools in Britain.

"Sometimes being left alone is a gift, Gabriel," Sherlock added, pouring boiling water over his teabag. He started to ask the boy if he wanted a cup of tea, but then thought better of it. Children don't drink tea. What do they drink, he wondered. A-ha! "Milk? Would you like a cup of milk, Gabriel? It might help you sleep." The boy shrugged and Sherlock sighed. "Don't shrug. Shrugging isn't an answer."

"Yes, please."

Sherlock nodded and went to the fridge, pouring Gabriel a cup and adding a little to his tea. He set the cup in front of the little boy and sat down with his own cup. He thought he should say something, but nothing was coming to mind. The boy just kept staring. Only children and cats had such piercing stares. Perhaps that was why Sherlock disliked both so intensely. For someone who could deduce the deepest secrets of someone's heart, Sherlock was terrified of being transparent.

"What was my mother like?"

Sherlock coughed, nearly choking on his tea. "Pardon?"

"My mother. Who was she?"

"Uhm… well…" He could feel himself blushing. He hadn't thought of Irene much in the last several years. Did he really know her at all? Of course the boy was curious, but he wasn't sure he had any answers. "She was… attractive, clever… a little reckless."

"Was she nice?"

Sherlock thought about this a moment. Nice wasn't exactly a word he'd use to describe her. "I suppose she was nice."

"D-Do you think she would have… liked me?" The boy stammered over his words. It was obvious that this was a question that had been praying heavily on his mind.

"Of course she would," Sherlock answered. "Given different circumstances, she would have adored you…"

"Then why did she leave me?"

"I don't know, Gabriel. Probably she thought that she couldn't take care of you. Your mother was famous for getting herself into trouble. She didn't want to put you in the middle of that."

"Is my mother dead? Is that why I'm here?"

Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest. He _was_ an intelligent thing, after all. Despite their cautions to keep that little tidbit from him, Gabriel had picked up on it easily. And what could Sherlock do but be truthful? "Yes. There was an explosion. A gas leak at her house and she was killed."

"Oh."

"She left behind a letter that told about you and then you were sent here." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the time on his watch. It was nearly 2 in the morning. "Shit, Gabriel… we should get you into bed. It's late." He rose from the table, setting his teacup in the sink.

"Please don't make me go to bed up there," Gabriel said, his voice quavering.

"Why not? Isn't your room all right?"

"It's cold and scary."

"There's nothing to be afraid of. It just isn't what you're used to. Finish you milk." Gabriel took the last sip and handed the cup to Sherlock who deposited it in the sink. "Come on," he said, beckoning Gabriel to follow him. The boy hesitated at first but when Sherlock turned with his eyebrow cocked and beckoned again, he figured he'd better follow.

They marched up the stairs, Gabriel lagging behind like a man climbing toward the gallows. As they passed John's room, they could hear him snoring lightly. Sherlock put a finger to his lips to indicated that they should be quiet in the hallway. He ushered the little boy into the spare room and followed him inside. "Do you have pajamas?" The little boy shook his head and Sherlock opened the small knapsack he'd carried up hours before. Inside was a selection of oversized, threadbare shirts and pants, much like what Gabriel was already wearing. He shoved everything back into the bag and dropped it back down on the floor. Looking around, he remembered that there were some of his old clothes stored in a box in the top of the closet. He pulled the box down and rummaged through until he found one of his old university t-shirts. "Here," he said, handing the shirt to Gabriel. "You can wear this to sleep in until we can buy you some new clothes. It's going to be a bit big, but it's just for sleeping." He replaced the box of clothes and shut the closet door. "Good night, Gabriel."

"Wait!" The boy rushed to Sherlock, blocking his path to the door. "Where are you going?"

"To sleep in my bed downstairs," Sherlock answered. "Obviously."

"Please don't leave me here by myself." Gabriel said, his voice trembling on the edge of tears. "I'm scared."

Sherlock sighed. This wasn't his area. When people cried, it made him very uncomfortable. Intellectually, he knew that this child belonged to him and that he was supposed to comfort him, but he had no idea how that might be accomplished. He didn't want to be harsh, but he feared that anything he said would come across that way. "All right, Gabriel. Change your clothes and I'll come back to… tuck you in. Okay?"

He turned his back and left the boy to change. It didn't sound like a bad idea, actually. He made his way into his own room and dug out his own pajamas from the dresser. In a moment's time he'd discarded his trimly cut suit and put on a loose and mismatched set of pajamas. He almost forgot about Gabriel upstairs and started to climb into bed, but then he heard the small boy padding down the stairs. He met him at the bottom of the stairs. "Aren't you coming back?" Gabriel asked. The t-shirt hung almost to the boy's ankles and the sleeves which were short on Sherlock nearly covered the boy's hands. He almost laughed in spite of himself.

"I said I was. Up you get," Sherlock said, pointing up the steps. The boy scampered up, Sherlock right behind, taking the stairs two at a time. Gabriel climbed up onto the bed and allowed Sherlock to pull the covers around him. "There you are. Good night."

"Can't you stay for a while?"

"You need to go to sleep, Gabriel. You've had a long day. We both have."

"Please," Gabriel pleaded. He scrambled over to the other side of the bed and reached down, picking up his knapsack. He searched around inside until he found an old, tattered book that had been shoved down into the depths. He handed it to Sherlock and slid down under the covers again. "Read." Gabriel commanded.

Sherlock opened the book. It was an ancient book of fairy tales. The cover was torn and the pages were riddled with mold. Evidently he had found this book at the convent and kept it carefully hidden. "You should read it to me," Sherlock remarked.

"I don't know how."

Sherlock's eyebrows were knitted in an expression of confusion. "What do you mean, you don't know how?"

"I don't know how to read." The little boy's voice began to tremble again and his eyes glistened with tears. He was embarrassed by his illiteracy and it made Sherlock angry to think that no one had bothered to help his child. "I just always looked at the pictures and made up the stories."

"Then I suppose that will have to be on the list of things to fix." He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned back against the headboard. To his surprise, the little boy snuggled into his side and put his head on Sherlock's arm. He yawned and mumbled something about a dragon. Sherlock flipped through the pages until he found an illustration of a red dragon lying atop a mountain of treasure.

"That's the one!" Gabriel exclaimed, pointing at the picture. "Read that one. I've always wanted to know what the real story said."

Sherlock nodded and began to read. "Once upon a time…" His lilting baritone, smooth and even acted as a lullaby, slowly relaxing Gabriel until his eyes grew heavy.

His small form curled closer and finally Sherlock lifted his arm and let the boy curl into the crook of it. He lay his head on his father's chest and after several minutes, before sleep overtook him, he had a question burning on his lips. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, Gabriel?"

"What am I supposed to call you?"

"Whatever you want, I suppose." Sherlock yawned and closed the book, setting it down on the floor beside the bed.

"Good." Gabriel yawned one last time and then gave in to Morpheus's embrace. "Good night, dad," he murmured.


	4. Trial by Water

**A/N: OK kids... I've been so sick the last few days that this chapter was a very slow process...LOL. It was also written while heavily medicated...just sayin'. Thanks again for all the reads and reviews. It means so much to know that someone out there is reading and enjoying what you put out there. No matter how silly it might be. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. Except maybe Gabriel.**

"You can't go anyplace until you've had a bath, Gabriel!"

John Watson opened his eyes, squinting at the light coming in from the window. He could hear voices downstairs and they didn't sound happy. Pulling on a t-shirt, he followed the voices until he found Sherlock and Gabriel in a standoff in front of the bathroom. Both had their arms crossed over their chests and stared at the other defiantly. They looked like carbon copies, one big, one small. "What's going on?" John asked.

"Ah, John. Please tell the child that bathing is necessary for being healthy."

John looked at the little boy. His hair was a mess with stringy curls that stood out all over and the dishevelment was highlighted by the enormous t-shirt draped over him. Gabriel's lip was poked out in a pout and it was obvious from his red cheeks and puffy eyes that he'd been crying. Apparently this battle of wills had been going on for quite some time. "Don't want to take a bath, mate?"

"No!" Gabriel shouted, stomping his tiny foot. "I won't take a bath and you can't make me!" He pointed at Sherlock with an accusing finger.

"I think you've underestimated me, Gabriel," Sherlock replied. "Or mistaken my restraint for weakness." John could hear the terse quality to his friend's voice. Sherlock was very nearly to the point of rage.

"Well perhaps you can just have a quick wash in the sink?" John offered, stepping toward Sherlock to lay a calming hand on his arm.

"No. The child needs a proper bath. His hair is a rat's nest and there's dirt under his fingernails. He's getting in the bath!"

"No I'm not!" John almost laughed. Apparently being stubborn was a genetic trait and Gabriel had it in spades.

"Yes. You. Are." Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. Gabriel didn't reply but turned his nose up. Suddenly, Sherlock darted toward the boy, grabbing him up and tossing him over a shoulder. Gabriel began to scream and kick, shrieking that Sherlock was trying to kill him.

"Sherlock, do you think this is a good…"

"Shut up, John," he growled, barreling through the bathroom door and slamming it behind him. From behind the door, the good doctor could hear a warzone erupt. There was shouting, tumbling around, heavy thuds and splashing. For a moment he thought that perhaps he should interfere, but the fierce look in his friend's eye told him that he should stay out of it. If he valued his life, that is.

John walked away, deciding that his assistance was no longer required. He flipped the switch on the kettle and began rummaging around in the cabinets for a cup. They were really going to have to clean the place up if there was going to be a child living there. Kids always managed to get into everything and if they weren't careful, Gabriel would be taking a jar full of eyeballs to school. Since he was off today, he guessed he'd start doing some of that. Otherwise it wouldn't get done. John knew that Sherlock wasn't about to voluntarily clean up anything. Just as he finished preparing his cup of Breakfast Tea, the bathroom door burst open with enough impetus to drive the doorknob into the adjacent wall as it bounced against the plaster. A half-naked Gabriel ran through the kitchen and over the armchair. Sherlock was close behind, dripping wet in his clothes, shoving John out of the way in an attempt to corner the boy. "Gabriel!" he shouted. The boy paid no mind, taking to the back stairs and racing toward his bedroom. John could only look on in disbelief, his lips still poised over the lip of his teacup. The walls shuddered as Gabriel's bedroom door slammed. John heard the lock click, immediately followed by Sherlock's banging. He'd lost it.

"Gabriel! Open the door!" _Bam bam bam!_ "Open the bloody door!" Sherlock was practically screaming at this point, his temper having finally gotten the best of him. John had seen it only one other time before and it wasn't pretty. Both father and son had wills of steel and it was obvious no one was going to win this particular battle. Should he call Mrs. Hudson? Or perhaps Anthea? After all, the boy had spent a day in her keeping as they traveled back to London. Maybe she had some ideas.

"No! I'm not taking a bath!" Gabriel's weepy voice shouted back.

"Just open the door!"

"No… you're yelling at me!"

"I'll stop if you open the door," Sherlock sighed. From where John stood at the bottom of the stairs, he could see Sherlock, now crouched down and resting his head on the wooden frame.

"No you won't! You'll hit me!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Gabriel…"

"Go away!"

Sherlock gave another enraged growl and slapped the door with the flat of his hand once more. He got to his feet and rushed down the stairs, bowling over John in the process.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

"I'm going to Bart's!" he shouted over his shoulder as he stomped down the stairs and out the front door.

Sherlock bent over the microscope, changing the slides a little too vigorously and slamming instruments down on the desk in frustration. How someone's life could become so completely unrecognizable in less than twenty-four hours was beyond him. What the Hell had he been thinking, telling Mycroft that he could bring that… _child thing_ into his life? He had no idea what he was doing and this was not a familiar sensation for Sherlock. He was self-assured and decisive in all situations. He'd always prided himself on being able to keep a handle on his emotions. Sherlock Holmes was a man in complete control of himself, but this morning he'd lost his temper. To the point where he was indeed afraid of what he might do. That was not appropriate parental behavior.

"Hi, Sherlock!" Molly Hooper's cheery voice startled him and the glass slide in his hand slipped through his fingers and bounced twice on the floor before shattering. "Oops… you ok?"

"Yes," he replied curtly, crouching down to pick up the pieces of glass.

"Oh… let me help you," she said.

"No. I've got it…"

"You can't use your hands! You'll…"

"Ouch! Goddamnit!" Sherlock shouted, throwing the remnants of the slide aside and instinctively bringing his hand to his mouth. Blood poured from a small, yet deep cut, dotting his sleeve and the floor with bright red drops. He sat down on the tile floor, using his uninjured fist to punch the cabinet door behind him with enough force to knock the paint off.

"Let me see it," Molly said, taking his hand and examining it.

"It's nothing," he sighed, trying to pull away, but she held firm. "Just a flesh wound."

"It's pretty deep, Sherlock. You'll need a couple of stitches."

"No. It's fine. Just get me a plaster."

Molly shook her head and stood up, keeping a hold of his hand so that he was forced to rise from the floor. "You'd bleed through in less than a minute. Come on, then." Molly practically shoved him on to a stool and went to get a tray of supplies. "Hold it over your head so that the blood runs away from the wound."

"I know," he sighed. "I have a working knowledge of physiology…"

"Yes, yes… I know, you're a proper genius," Molly interrupted, pushing aside the microscope and hopping up on the table in front of him. She reached behind her back and grabbed the arm of the halogen lamp and pointed it toward them, nearly blinding Sherlock in the process.

"Is all this really necessary?" he grumbled.

"Well… you could just bleed to death on the floor," she answered. Ever since he'd enlisted Molly's help a few years back, their relationship had changed from awkward to familiar. Sure, there were still times that she stammered and blushed whenever he spoke to her, but most of the time, their interactions were casual and light. He had to admit to gaining a bit more respect for her once she'd started telling him off on a regular basis. "Are you all right, Sherlock? You seem a bit… flustered today. It's not like you." She used an alcohol swab to clean the blood from the wound, leaning in and blowing on it lightly.

"I didn't sleep much last night," he replied.

"I would imagine not," she said, tearing open a set of tweezers. "First night with a kid in the house."

"The night wasn't the problem. I don't really sleep much anyway. But this morning… I don't want to talk about it." He gasped as she stabbed the point of the tweezers into the cut. "Ow… shit that hurt."

"Sorry." She smiled sheepishly and continued pulling tiny shards of glass out of his skin.

"Those aren't the same instruments you use on dead people are they?"

A confused look crossed her features and she looked down at the tweezers and back at the supply cabinet. "Hmmm… God I hope not." His eyes widened with alarm and Molly laughed. "Of course not, idiot."

"Ha ha. Your wit is almost more than I can stand, Dr. Hooper."

She grinned, checking that she'd gotten all of the glass. When she was finished, she swept another alcohol pad over the wound and closed Sherlock's hand over it. "Put pressure on it." He did as he was told while she prepared what she would need to stitch up his hand. "So what happened?"

"What makes you think something happened?"

"Well, you're never clumsy. And you seem a bit more peevish than usual, is all. You don't have to talk about it, but it might help." He glanced up and met her eyes. Molly smiled reassuringly and put her glasses on before bending over his hand once more.

"He won't take a bath."

"What?"

"Gabriel. He won't take a bath. He needs new clothes and he'll have to be sent to school, all of which require that he be clean. But he refuses. He looks like some homeless child."

"Little boys often don't want to take baths. My little brothers were the same." She poked the needle through Sherlock's skin and he seethed. "Sorry…"

"I tried to reason with him, but he was having none of it. I explained how there was really nothing to it and even asked what he did at the convent, but he became more agitated. Finally, I just decided to use brute force… that's when all Hell broke loose."

Molly tried to hide an amused smile. "I'm afraid you'll have to define 'hell' for me."

"Well he just went crazy! He ran around the flat, knocking things about, kicking and screaming. He splashed water all over me—"

"He had a tantrum."

"Exactly." Molly laughed, tying up the last stitch. "It isn't funny!"

"Oh yes it is," she replied, still giggling. "I can just imagine you chasing a five year old around the flat, leaping over sofas."

"Thank you, Molly… you've been so helpful." He sighed heavily, pulling his sore hand away from her and applying the bandage himself.

"I'm sorry," she said, stifling her giggles with a cough. "You're right. It isn't funny. What are you going to do?"

"I have no idea. All I do know is that I'm a bit afraid to broach the subject again. I nearly lost it, Molly. I wanted to hit him. I resorted to just shouting at him. But I'll have to do something. Trust me, I fell asleep with the kid last night and by this morning… let's just say he needs a bath."

"Perhaps you're not thinking about this logically, Sherlock."

"Me? Not logical?"

"Yes you. Look, he's five. He lashed out and had a tantrum. Children don't just do that. Children act out because they're afraid, generally. Maybe he had a fright at the convent. You'll have to get him to tell you what that was and then maybe you can convince him that the same thing won't happen again."

"You think he's afraid of water?" The thought seemed ridiculous. After all, what was there to be afraid of? He shot Molly his patented look of amused derision.

"Well you don't seem to have any better ideas. I'd be willing to wager that Gabriel is afraid of the water and once he overcomes that fear, you won't have any more trouble getting him in the bath." She smiled. "Fifty pounds?"

Amazingly enough, it wasn't that difficult to convince John to help with his plan. Probably the part about spending the rest of his life living in a confined space with a smelly kid or a screamy kid had helped to persuade him. A call to St. Christopher's had confirmed Molly's suspicions that Gabriel had an almost pathological fear of the water. Apparently, a few months previous while playing in the forest behind the convent, Gabriel had fallen over a tree root and rolled into the stream, nearly drowning in the cold water. Luckily, the caretaker had heard his cries and managed to pull him out just in time. The small boy contracted pneumonia from the incident and from then on the sisters had allowed him to take sponge baths to avoid his fits. Sometimes they could manage to hold him down and scrub his hair in the kitchen sink, but it wasn't worth the aggravation to make the child take a proper bath each night.

It was pretty chilly as Sherlock stood out on the street in front of the Aquatic Center, waiting for John and Gabriel. What could be taking them so long? It should only be short stroll around the corner. Finally, they emerged from the side street hand in hand. He could hear Gabriel laughing and it was a bit of a relief. When he'd stormed out this morning, Sherlock had feared that his anger would scar the child, but all seemed to be well. "Hello!" he shouted to them with a wave. Gabriel caught sight of him and broke away from John to run down the street toward Sherlock.

"Hi, dad!" Gabriel chirped, slamming into Sherlock's legs and wrapping his arms around him. The embrace caught him off guard and for a moment, he wasn't sure how to respond. Most people were only marginally glad to see him when he came into a room, much less so excited that they embraced him vigorously.

"Hello… Gabriel…" he said, laying a hand on the little boy's head. "Did you have a better day?"

Gabriel nodded. "John said I should say sorry for this morning." Sherlock glanced at his friend who shrugged and offered a sheepish smile.

"Oh he did, did he?"

"Yeah. I'm not really sorry, though," Gabriel said in a matter of fact tone. "I'm sorry that you were mad. And I'm sorry that I knocked over the towel rack, but I'm not sorry I didn't want to take a bath." Sherlock had to hide his face in the lapel of his coat to keep from laughing out loud. He had always hated when he was forced to apologize as a child. He rarely meant it and didn't see the point in lying.

"Well, Gabriel. I'm sorry that I got angry with you and lost my temper. But I'm not sorry that I was insisting that you bathe. There. We're even." He offered Gabriel a smirk and steered him gently toward the doors of the Aquatic Center.

"What are we doing here?" Gabriel asked as they emerged into the foyer of the enormous gymnasium. There was hardly anyone around at this hour. Most people had already gone home in the early evening for dinner. Sherlock had chosen this time on purpose. If Gabriel had a massive meltdown, then it would be easier to control the situation without a lot of people around. But there weren't going to be any tantrums this time. He and Molly had planned it all so well.

"I like to go for a swim every now and then," John started. "Helps me relax. So I called Sherlock up and asked if he wanted to come along."

"Swim?" Gabriel asked, the realization of what was going on slowly dawning on him. "I don't like to swim," he said, his voice sounding pitiful.

"Yeah, we figured," Sherlock said. "But that's ok. You don't have to. You can just watch if you like." He shrugged and swiped his membership card. John patted the little boy on the shoulder and directed him through the turnstile.

The pool was completely deserted when they walked in. Sherlock's heart shuddered briefly in his chest, remembering the last time they'd been at this particular pool. But like with so many traumatic events in his life, he was able to shove them to the side in favor of the matter at hand. But he knew there would be nightmares later. "Stay here and don't move," Sherlock said, pointing to the bleachers. Gabriel did as he was told, staying as far back from the edge of the pool as possible as he walked toward the seating area.

Several minutes later, Sherlock and John emerged from the locker room. Both of them wore swimsuits and chased one another rambunctiously toward the pool. Sherlock pushed John who fell into the water comically, shouting obscenities toward his friend. "Fucking nutter! You could have killed me!" John shrieked.

Sherlock laughed. "Don't be such a big girl's blouse." With that, he dove off the side of the pool with a bit more grace than John and began swimming a lap around the pool. The good doctor joined him and soon they were racing back and forth, pausing every so often to try and drown one another.

"What are you doing?" Gabriel asked, staring at the two of them with an almost worried puzzlement.

"Just having a laugh," John replied, splashing water playfully toward where the little boy sat by the pool. "Have you never been swimming with your mates before?"

"I don't really like to swim," Gabriel said.

"Ever try it?" Sherlock asked.

"Not on purpose," Gabriel replied darkly.

"Well if you want to," John began, "I think we have an extra cozzy."

"No thank you," the little boy sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Suit yourself." John pushed off the side and swam off to catch Sherlock. "Do you think this is going to work?" he asked once they were out of earshot.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, "but I was out of ideas." He dunked his head under the water and came back up, pushing his hair out of his face. "We'll swim for another twenty minutes and if he doesn't take the bait, we'll just go."

Sherlock had perfect form as he strode through the surface of the water, stretching his extremities in an elegant line. Swimming was one of the many sports that Sherlock's father had insisted he do on his mission to make him a man. Swimming, boxing, fencing—you name it, Sherlock had been subjected to learning it. And like everything Sherlock learned, he was an expert. John, on the other hand, swam like a soldier, fast and forceful like he was storming the beach.

Another ten minutes passed before Gabriel stood up and walked over to the side of the pool, taking his shoes off and sitting down. "Is the water cold?" Gabriel asked Sherlock when he came up for air.

"Not at all. The pool is heated so that you can swim all year. You'd like it if you came in." He playfully splashed water on the boy's ankles. The boy squealed and laughed, finally dunking his feet into the water.

"I don't know how to swim," Gabriel whispered. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment and his hands were shoved far into his pockets.

"You're only five," Sherlock said. "I didn't know either until someone taught me."

"Do you think I'd be able to learn?"

"Of course. Any idiot can learn to swim." At that precise moment, John started out of the pool from the opposite side, slipped on the ladder and fell back into the water. "See."

"That was completely intentional!" John shouted, spitting water and sputtering.

Gabriel laughed and kicked water at Sherlock. "So if I get in there… you won't let me drown?"

"I promise."

When Sherlock and Gabriel returned from the locker room, it wasn't as John had expected. He'd thought that surely the child would have both arms through one hole of his shirt and the swim trunks in tatters. But no, Sherlock and Gabriel looked amicable as they strode across the floor. It was odd to see them actually looking like a father with his son rather than two people in a mess. Gabriel held Sherlock's hand tightly, his big blue eyes widely surveying the room. There was clear apprehension but no panic. That was good. John wondered how long it would last.

"All right, Gabe?" John asked, brushing a towel through his own hair and sitting down on the side of the pool.

"Yeah," the boy replied, looking down at the blue water that sparkled from the fluorescents overhead. "I'm not sure," he said with a sigh, looking up at Sherlock.

"You're going to be fine. Don't look so scared. No one's going to push you in. And if you hate it, we can go. That was the deal."

"And you don't have to swim on your own, Gabe," John interjected. "We'll help you." The boy nodded and allowed himself to be led toward the wide steps that led down into the pool. Sherlock stepped in and waited for the boy to step in after him. With a shuddering hand, Gabriel grasped the rail and started to step down into the warm water. As soon as his toes touched the water, he decided against it, pulling back with a whimper.

"I don't think I can."

"Of course you can," Sherlock replied. John raised his eyebrow at his friend, recognizing by his tone of voice that Sherlock was about to become impatient. "Oh…" Sherlock mused, an idea forming in his head. "Come here," he said, beckoning Gabriel forward then reaching out and pulling him into his side. The little boy cringed, not wanting his feet to touch the water, but he soon realized that Sherlock had a firm hold around his little body. Gabe relaxed a little and let his father hoist him up on his narrow hip, using his height to keep the little boy above the surface, save for the tips of his toes.

"Don't let go," Gabriel whined, wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock's neck.

"I'm not going to let go," Sherlock replied, his voice growling at first but then remembering to be gentler. "I promise. Trust me."

The boy nodded and allowed his father to sink down into the water with him. It took a matter of seconds before Gabriel was laughing and splashing in the water, delighting in the warmth. John jumped in behind them and Gabe held onto Sherlock's shoulders as they raced from one end of the pool to the other. "That's not fair. You have an extra rudder," John complained.

The three of them exited the pool an hour later, soaking wet and utterly exhausted. Autumn nights were cold in London and Gabriel snuggled into Sherlock's coat as they walked back to Baker Street. "That wasn't too bad, I guess," he murmured.

"Amazing. You didn't die. Call the papers," Sherlock replied sarcastically. John snorted. "After all, I have a reputation to protect. I can't be drowning you in public just yet." He winked at Gabriel and allowed the boy to lay his head on his shoulder.

"So if I can do that, then I should be able to take a bath huh?" Gabriel asked.

"You're very perceptive."

Gabriel sighed. "Okay."

They walked a bit further, thankful that the lights in Mrs. Hudson's parlor visible at the end of the street. Gabriel was nearly asleep in Sherlock's arms. "So… that's good then. Another crisis averted," John said. Sherlock nodded. "So why don't you look nearly as proud of yourself as you normally do?"

Sherlock paused, looking up into the night sky. "I owe Molly Hooper fifty pounds."


	5. Educating Angels

**A/N: It's been a couple of days, but I hope this one was worth the wait. Over 5K for you... apparently I got long winded. Thanks to all my reviewers and readers. You really encourage me to keep going. So thank you muchly! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing save for Gabriel and Mrs. Barrett.**

Mycroft Holmes walked with steady purpose up the sidewalk toward 221B Baker Street. Though it was a brisk November day, the sun was shining and the air had that crisp, smoky scent that could be found nowhere else. It was one of those days that made you glad to be a Londoner. Mycroft had been away for a month in the bleakest part of the world and now that he was back, the noise and color acted as an intoxicant. That was the only explanation he could think of for actually wanting to go and see his little brother. That and what can only be described as a very odd rumor. Surely it was exaggeration on the part of his associate. Sherlock with a child? Forget the absurdity of the notion that his little brother might keep another human being alive, but how did the child get here? He wasn't sure Sherlock had the necessary hormones involved to spread his genetic code. When he'd initially been contacted about the existence of the boy, he hadn't had the time to go and see for himself.

He approached the familiar black door and rapped lightly with the end of his umbrella. Well, the house was still standing, that was good. Anthea had told him that the child was an absolute terror, which wasn't surprising considering his parentage. Mycroft remembered how Sherlock had been as a child: willful, brooding and selfish. Why should his offspring be any different?

"Oh! Mycroft, how nice to see you!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she opened the door. "Was wondering how long it would take you to come 'round. Come in!" Mycroft smiled politely and allowed her to usher him inside. "I suppose you'll be here to see Sherlock. He's here. I was just going up with a tray of biscuits. You know how he never eats. It's not good for him." She continued babbling as they walked up the stairs and Mycroft was only half listening. He kept waiting for the crashes and shouting, but there were none. As they reached the top of the stairs, he could hear music playing softly from the stereo. The scene before him was probably the strangest he'd ever seen at 221. For starters everything was clean. There were no beakers full of eyeballs, no bottles of formaldehyde on the countertop, no gory crime scene photos pinned to the wall. The flat looked practically normal. "Can I get you a cuppa, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Mycroft.

"Please," he replied as she took his coat and umbrella. He continued into the lounge to find Sherlock sitting at his desk, three different books and a case file open in front of him. John was in his chair, the laptop in his lap as he tapped away and hummed with the stereo. Finally, a small boy lay on the floor between them, leaned over a large picture book. Mycroft cleared his throat to draw their attention. "Ahem…"

John was the first to respond. "Ah, Mycroft! Hello. Sherlock, look… its Mycroft."

Sherlock shifted, looking over his shoulder and acknowledging his presence with a nod. "Checking up on me already?"

"Already?"

"Yes. From the looks of you I see that you've just arrived from the airport. Didn't even stop at home first. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Well I had heard you'd been quite busy in the last month, so I thought I'd come over and see how you were."

"As if you weren't watching every millimeter of the place," Sherlock grumbled.

The small boy got to his feet and ambled over to Sherlock, clutching his book. "What's this word?" he asked, halfway climbing on to Sherlock's lap. Mycroft was instantly taken aback by how much the child looked like his brother. Right down to the way his nose turned up in that way that could be sneering or playful. He was long and lean with a shock of coal black hair that refused to behave no matter how much it was brushed.

"Feathers," Sherlock replied, pointing at the word. "Gabriel, this is my brother… and I suppose, your uncle, Mycroft."

"Hi," Gabriel said with a little wave.

"Hello, Gabriel. You seem to look well."

"Why shouldn't he look well?" Sherlock asked.

"I had prepared myself for the worst," Mycroft replied. "Given that as a child you couldn't even manage to keep a goldfish alive."

"To be fair, goldfish can't protest when they're hungry," John said, not looking up from his blog post.

Before he could respond, Mrs. Hudson was back with the tea, setting a tray down on the coffee table. Gabriel scrambled away from his father, rushing to the table and Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. "Oh! Don't be rude, dear," Mrs. Hudson scolded gently, handing him his own teacup full of milk.

"Sorry," he replied, taking a couple of biscuits and settling back to his place on the floor as everyone collected their teacups.

"Well, you're all just a happy family, it seems," Mycroft mused, stirring his tea. "I must admit that I had expected a warzone when I got here."

Sherlock, who hadn't moved from his desk, gave a snort. "Just because our childhood was chaos…" Mycroft nodded. Their home life as children had not been perfect by any means. There had always been fighting and strife, much of which Mycroft had tried to shield his little brother from, but it hadn't always been possible. And then Sherlock had always been so erratic. He wouldn't talk for days at a time and then out of the blue would have a screaming tantrum that no one could assuage.

Gabriel rose again, going to Sherlock and holding his book up. "Dad, what's this word?"

Sherlock peered at the book and wrinkled his nose. "Gabriel, I'm not telling you that one. You can figure it out."

"No I can't… it's too hard," he whined.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know your letters. Sound it out." Gabriel sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and flopping back down on the floor.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched with a knowing smile. "I see so much of you in him, brother. Anthea told me that he looked like you, but it goes well beyond that. I almost suspect that you and Molly Hooper grew him in a Petrie dish." John choked on his tea trying to conceal his laughter.

"I'm afraid his origins were much simpler than that," Sherlock sighed.

"Oh yes… Miss Adler. I suppose I did underestimate you a bit on that front, little brother." He took another sip of his tea. Sherlock suspected that he had been deliberately trying to humiliate him in Buckingham Palace all those years ago, but in truth, Mycroft just assumed that his brother was a sexless creature who would have no idea about women. It was a primal instinct, a function of the reptilian brain that a man like Sherlock would have no use of. Sex would have been, as he put it, _deleted_ long ago. "In case you were wondering, we've found no trace of her other than the letter addressed to you. But the house where she'd been living was completely destroyed."

Sherlock shot Mycroft a murderous glare and jerked his head toward Gabriel, indicating that he shouldn't talk about this in front of him.

"Sing!" Gabriel exclaimed. "I got it, Dad! I got the word!"

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Now read the whole sentence."

"I like to sing!" Gabriel chirped, jumping up to receive a big hug from Mrs. Hudson.

"That's lovely, Gabriel dear!"

"Well done, mate," John said, high-fiving the little boy. "You'll be reading Gray's Anatomy before you know it!"

Mycroft crossed to Sherlock's desk. "I took the liberty of making a call to Hampstead. They can take Gabriel by the end of the month. He'll need to take placement exams of course, but I'm sure…"

"No," Sherlock replied curtly.

"What do you mean? He has to go to school, Sherlock. I'd think you of all people would be pleased. If for no other reason than to get him out of your hair during the day."

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft, his eyes narrow and set in that way that said his mind was made up. "That… prison that Irene left Gabriel in for the last five years didn't see fit to even teach the child his alphabet or to write his own name. Do you think I'm going to send him to that posh bitch puppy mill to be humiliated?"

"They'll teach him to read and write, Sherlock. Not to mention prepare him for acceptance in the best Preparatory and Senior Schools in Britain!"

Sherlock gasped, feigning giddy shock. "Oh do you really think so? Maybe he'll even get into Hogwarts!" he exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning back to his desk.

"Don't be ridiculous. How much do you think he can learn on his own?"

"He's been here a month and already knows his letters, his numbers to one hundred and he can write his name. He's already started reading. I'd call that progress," John interrupted. "I mean, ordinarily I'd agree with you, Mycroft, but I think Sherlock's right to let him catch up before he goes to school."

"And who is doing all of this instruction?" Mycroft asked. "You?"

"I think he could do worse than a genius, a doctor and an experienced mother figure," John replied.

"Next thing you know, you'll all be taking him to the morgue and letting him dissect dead bodies," Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Will you at least let me send a tutor? To fill in the gaps, as it were?"

Sherlock waved him away, not really paying much attention. "Whatever you want, Mycroft."

Gabriel stood still, letting his father pull the brush through his unruly locks, scrunching his face as Sherlock roughly pulled at the tangles. "But why do I have to have a babysitter? I'm not a baby."

"Ms. Barrett isn't a babysitter. She's a teacher. Your Uncle Mycroft is insane and thinks you need a tutor." Sherlock sighed, giving up on ever making Gabriel's hair sit down. He shouldn't be surprised. He had the same problem with his own. Sherlock had to admit that he was almost glad to have someone coming. In the month since Gabriel's arrival, he hadn't had much chance to work outside of the flat and he was going stir crazy. It was for this reason that he'd allowed Mycroft to send the teacher over for a couple of mornings a week to help Gabriel. Not that the boy really needed much help. Once he'd learned his letters and the sounds they made, his reading was blossoming at an almost alarming rate. And maths were coming on quickly, as all three of the other inhabitants never missed an opportunity to count with him or pose problems.

"I don't want to stay here with somebody else. Why can't I go with you?" he whined.

"Because Ms. Barrett is coming all the way here to see you. Because I'm going to a crime scene and that isn't for little boys. And because there's no one else to watch you today with Mrs. Hudson gone to her sister's and John working."

Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest, poking his lip out. "I don't need anyone to watch me."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh yes you do." The week before, he'd gotten a little distracted during a case. He was Skyping with an investigator in Kent when he heard a crash. While she was straightening up, Mrs. Hudson had put the chocolate biscuits on the top shelf of the cupboard and Gabriel decided to build an intricate ladder of kitchen chairs, books and cooking pots to reach it. He'd only reached the first "wrung" when the whole thing came crashing down. "You really do."

"Well I don't want her here!"

He leaned in. "Do you see anything on my face that might be construed as concern?" Sherlock grabbed a black jumper with a skull knitted across the chest and pulled it down over his son's head. "I think you'll be all right with an old maid schoolteacher for a couple of hours."

Gabriel gave an exaggerated, pitiful sigh. "But Daddy… I'll miss you." He fluttered his eyelashes over those enormous blue eyes and even managed a tiny tear in the corner.

"Wow…" Sherlock started. "And the BAFTA goes to Gabriel Holmes for his performance in Laying it on Thick!" Before he could respond, there was a knock at the door downstairs.

Sherlock stood up to his full height and straightened his jacket. "That's probably her. Put on your shoes and come down to meet her."

"I have to wear shoes too?"

Sherlock glared.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson bellowed. "Mrs. Barrett is here!" He could hear them clomping up the stairs and Sherlock met them in the lounge. The teacher was a stereotypical nanny type. At least sixty, round, glasses pushed forward on her nose in a way that defied gravity. Her smart gray skirt was littered with strands of silver cat hair. She carried an oversized purse, clutched in gnarled hands that spoke of arthritis and spinsterhood with their lack of jewelry. Her gray hair was pulled up in a tight bun that made her head look miniscule up next to her large body wrapped in yards of pink wool.

"Mr. Holmes," the woman said, offering her hand. Her voice was deep and it startled Sherlock a bit, putting him in mind of this hideous movie that John watched a while back where a man dressed up like a nanny to be with his children. "Hyacinth Barrett. I was retained by a Mr. Mycroft Holmes to tutor a child here three days each week?"

"Yes, my brother insisted that my son Gabriel needed help."

"Children raised by one parent often do. Especially when that one parent is a man. Men tend to be clueless about children, wouldn't you agree?"

"Not remotely."

Mrs. Barrett chuckled to herself. "Where is the child?"

Sherlock turned to call Gabriel, but he was already at the bottom of the stairs, peering out of the shadows with a reluctant stare. "Come, Gabriel," he ordered, beckoning to his son. Gabriel did as he was told, hiding behind Sherlock, his eyes never leaving the stranger.

"Hello, little one. And who might you be?" Ms. Barrett asked, bending over to get on his level.

"Gabriel Holmes," he answered, casting a look toward his father who nodded reassuringly.

She offered her hand, but Gabriel just stared, pulling closer to his father. "He's not much for talking is he?"

"He has that most admirable of childish qualities. He's quiet," Sherlock answered. "He's five years old. He knows the alphabet and can read and write a little."

Mrs. Barrett gasped. "I wasn't told he was that far behind! We have our work cut out for us then don't we, Gabriel?"

"Far behind?" Sherlock asked. "It's my understanding that most children are barely able to read and write their own names at his age."

"Mr. Holmes, he should be writing sentences at this age! I'm afraid we have a lot of work to do. It's good that you called me when you did!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There were many choice words for Mrs. Barrett building in his throat, but he'd promised that he would give this a go. He turned to Gabriel and knelt down to his level, straightening his jumper. "All right, then, Gabe. Be a good boy and listen to Mrs. Barrett."

"Dad, I don't like her," Gabriel whispered. "She thinks I'm dumb."

"Well we know that's not true. Just remember what I've told you so many times—most people are idiots."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I should be back around lunch. And John will definitely be back in time for her to leave." Gabriel gave a final pout and Sherlock smirked, tousling his hair affectionately. "Buck up, Gabe."

"No worries, Mr. Holmes. Gabriel and I will be just fine," the teacher said, smiling and taking Gabriel's hand. He tried to pull away but she held firm.

"Dad…" he whined, his voice trembling a little. Sherlock hesitated. For a moment he started to reconsider his position. For all his showboating, Mycroft didn't know anything about children or what they needed. Maybe leaving Gabriel with a tutor wasn't the best thing.

"Go on, Mr. Holmes. Better to cut the strings quickly, lest it grow to a full on tantrum." She waved Sherlock down the stairs, practically pushing him.

Gabriel watched his father disappear down the stairs and out the door, closing it with a resounding slam. He looked up at the older woman and took in all of her features. Clearly, she was not a warm, grandmotherly type like Mrs. Hudson. This Barrett woman would most definitely not be baking biscuits or giving him his milk in a teacup so he could drink like the adults. "Well then, Gabriel. Let's get started then, shall we?"

"I guess," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

She grunted in an amused yet annoyed sort of way. "You guess? Never guess, boy. You must know and always be sure of yourself." She dragged him across the room and had him sit down at Sherlock's desk.

"I shouldn't sit here. This is my dad's desk," Gabriel said. "I'm not supposed to move anything."

"Nevermind that. First, we shall start by finding out what you can do." She began gathering up Sherlock's files and books and shoving them onto an empty shelf before handing Gabriel a small primer book. "Open it to the tenth page and begin reading at the top."

Gabriel stared down at the page, looking at the words that snaked across it. They were tiny and there were so many of them. And no pictures to help. The books his father or John brought home to him always had brightly colored pictures on every page. Even the anatomy book that Doctor Molly gave him had colorful illustrations that made it easy for him to understand. This book was just… boring.

"Go ahead, child. Begin at the top."

Gabriel sighed. "The boy…raa…" He tried to remember the sounds, but it was so difficult with her staring at him like that. Dad never stared at him when he read. He left him alone until he had a problem. The letter a…. a was a vowel… vowels had two sounds… but which one was it? "Rain… rained?"

"No!" she shouted, startling Gabriel. "The a is on its own in the word, so it MUST have a short sound! Again!"

"The boy… ran… to the…" Oh God, the next word… what was the next word? It started with a c. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. She just wouldn't stop looking at him. He didn't like when people looked at him like that. "…the…ssss…."

"Hard c, Gabriel! Cuh! Cuh cuh cuh!"

"The cuh… ah…rrr…nnn… er. Cuh-ah-rrr-ner?" He looked up at Mrs. Barrett who was shaking her head.

"No no no… I'm afraid you're too low for this book." She snatched the book from under his nose and sat down on the couch. She began rummaging through her bag, pulling out all sorts of books and papers. "We'll have to start with something a bit more elementary." She mumbled under her breath, "Evidently the apple fell a bit far from the tree…"

Gabriel slunk down into the chair feeling more ashamed than he ever had before. It wasn't his fault he couldn't read. Nobody had ever taught him. He thought he was doing a good job with his Dad and John and Mrs. Hudson, but maybe they were just being nice. Maybe they just didn't want to tell him how dumb he was. He could feel tears stinging in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand. He didn't want her to see him crying. She'd probably yell at him for that too.

"Oh bother," Mrs. Barrett sighed finally. "I don't have any of my pre-primer books. I was told that you were beyond them, so I'm afraid I left them at home. Nevermind that, I'll just bring them tomorrow. For now, let's work on your writing."

It had been two weeks since Gabriel had begun staying with Mrs. Barrett and Sherlock wasn't convinced. Gabriel didn't seem to be gleaning much from their time together. At least, not that he could tell. The little boy had been so excited to read each night before bed, but lately he came up with excuses to skip it. Even when Sherlock read to him, Gabriel would fidget and squirm until it was over. Even worse, on the mornings when Mrs. Barrett was coming, he would come up with a million little reasons to keep Sherlock there. He would beg him not to go, often times with tears and tantrums. One morning he claimed he was sick, another he spilled his breakfast all over so that his father was delayed in leaving. He'd even gone so far as to sneak down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. After an hour of searching they found him sitting in her parlor having tea and scones while she watched the morning news on telly.

"Gabriel, it's time to get up," Sherlock said, nudging the little boy's shoulder. "Mrs. Barrett is already here and I have to go."

"Nooo…" he whined, pulling the duvet over his head.

"Yes. I don't have time to argue with you," Sherlock sighed, pulling back the covers. Gabriel sat up, his eyes still squinched shut and his hair standing on end.

"I don't want to get up," he whined.

"Get used to disappointment," Sherlock replied cooly, tossing clothes in a haphazard heap into the center of the bed. "Come on, get up and put your clothes on."

Gabriel stomped out of bed with a grumpy mumble. "I hate Mrs. Barrett…"

"That's a bit strong, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, letting Gabriel know that he could hear him perfectly well. "She's trying to help you."

"She thinks I'm dumb."

Sherlock sighed. "She does not think you're dumb." He grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him over to where he sat on the bed a bit more roughly than usual and guiding his arms into the little Oxford shirt. "And even if she did, what do you care what other people think?"

Gabriel shrugged.

"Don't shrug. Shrugging isn't an answer."

"I just don't like her, Dad."

Sherlock continued fumbling with the buttons on Gabriel's shirt, nodding but not really paying much attention. His mind was already racing as he thought about his current puzzle. This one had been particularly complex, but Lestrade had called before dawn to tell him they had found another body that might hold the clue they'd been looking for. "Look, Gabriel… I'm not her biggest fan either, but right now I just don't have the time. We can talk about it this evening, okay?"

"Whatever," Gabriel sighed, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder as he stepped into his trousers.

"Remember, when Mrs. Barrett leaves, you go down to Mrs. Hudson's flat and stay there until myself or John gets back home."

"I know," he sighed.

"Breakfast is on the table. Don't eat an entire box of cereals, please. You'll be ill."

"I won't." When Sherlock stood up, Gabriel threw his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. "Can't I go with you just this once?"

"Gabe, we've been through this every morning. You can't come where I'm going. It's not like when we go to see Doctor Molly in her office or Greg… it's not a place for little boys." The boy held tightly and he could hear him sniffling into his coattail. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Something wasn't right with this. He knelt down to face Gabriel. "What's wrong?" He searched his son's face for signs of something more than sleepiness. Clearly the child was having some kind of crisis. How could Sherlock not know? Was his own child beyond his skills of deduction?

Gabriel shrugged. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching the boy's face and manner in an attempt to glean something, anything. "You'd tell me if something was wrong wouldn't you?"

"It's nothing, Dad. You better hurry up. Everybody's waiting for you."

Sherlock nodded, still not sure if he believed Gabriel, but knowing that he was going to be even later if he didn't hurry up. He brushed his fingers through the boy's hair. "Don't forget to brush your teeth and hair after you eat."

Gabriel sat at the table after his father and John were gone, staring at Mrs. Barrett. She was doing the morning crossword puzzle, waiting for him to finish eating his cereals and not paying much attention. He'd almost told his father earlier about Mrs. Barrett shouting at him and making him read baby books and staring at him all the time and rapping him on the hand when he tried to use his fingers to add. But the words wouldn't come out. In that moment he'd decided that the only person that could get rid of that old battleaxe was him.

"The kettle's still on, Mrs. Barrett. Care for a cuppa?"

The teacher looked up, surprised that the boy had said a word to her. He smiled sweetly and she couldn't help but return it. Gabriel could be very charming when he wanted to be. Another of those genetic traits. "Why, yes dearie. That would be very nice of you. Just one sugar, please."

Gabriel smiled like a cherub, getting up from his place and putting his cereal bowl in the sink. He stood on the little step stool by the sink and took down a teacup. He began preparing the tea, pouring the hot water over the teabag and letting it steep while he found the sugar bowl. He'd watched John a thousand times, so he knew how to make a cup of tea, but this time would be a special cup. Just for Mrs. Barrett. Stretching higher, he was able to reach the spice rack: cinnamon, cayenne pepper—all the red stuff. After steeping the tea, he pulled the bag out, dropping in a cube of sugar and then upending the bottles of red spice over the cup until the steam rising from the liquid was making his eyes burn.

Of course, the cream tea of destruction wasn't the best thing Gabriel had tucked into his arsenal this morning. While he was supposed to be brushing his teeth, he'd prepared a few more surprises for Mrs. Barrett. Before turning around, he palmed the little silver key that would open his father's "special" icebox. The little dorm fridge that Sherlock kept in his room was the resting place of all sorts of wondrous objects that no one knew he knew about. If he was lucky, there would be a fresh head in there.

He stepped off the stool carefully, holding the teacup in both hands as he'd been taught. "Sorry it took me so long, Mrs. Barrett. I had to find the sugar."

"That's all right, dear," she cooed, taking the cup from him. He sat down at the table and took out his primer book that she made him read from every morning. It took her several minutes for her to take a sip from her cup.

"Aren't you going to have some of your tea?"

"Oh of course, dear. I was just waiting for it to cool." She smiled and continued with her crossword. For a moment, Gabriel was afraid that she was on to him and had humored him all this time. Finally she grasped the handle with her meaty fingers, bringing the cup slowly to her lips. Gabriel's body was tense as he tried not to giggle. She took one sip. Then another. Slowly, she began to realize that the heat of the tea was not from the boiling water. She gasped, dropping the cup on the floor, shattering it as she put her hand over her mouth. "What on Earth!" she exclaimed, flapping her arms and sticking her tongue out. Gabriel couldn't help it and began laughing at the spectacle of her. Leaping up from the table, she began running around the room, apparently in search of a water source. She stumbled over the stepladder as she rushed to the sink, scooping water into her mouth with cupped hands. "You little…" she whipped around, but Gabriel had already run into Sherlock's room, peeking through the cracked door to where she stalked through the lounge.

The lounge was a literal minefield she would have to traverse to get to the coup de gras of his plan. His toys, which he had been told thousands upon thousands of times not to leave lying about, created a maze through the darkened room. He could hear her crashing into things as she passed, stumbling over the moved coffee table and the couch cushions that had been strewn here and there. "Gabriel!" she shrieked, followed by a heavy thud. He put both chubby hands over his mouth, trying to hold in the giggles, knowing that she had found John's rollerblades. That was his timer. He knew that he would have just enough time before she got to Sherlock's bedroom to find him. Pulling the key out of his pocket, he ran to the fridge and unlocked it. Inside there was no head, but a curious beaker filled with something round and gelatinous looked promising. In a cage on top of the fridge, a couple of white mice darted back and forth. "Even better," Gabriel whispered, pulling one out and shoving it down into the pocket of his jeans.

"Gabriel Holmes!" Mrs. Barrett screamed as she kicked open the door of the bedroom. "Get out here and explain yourself!" He almost laughed again at seeing her. Her tight bun had fallen to the side and her glasses hung from one ear. She limped and her cozy grandma cardi was pulled down over one shoulder and hung loosely from the one button she had left.

"I just was trying to get you some water, Mrs. B!" he said, sounding for all the world like the sweetest little boy on Earth. He held out the beaker, which she took and immediately began screaming once she realized she was holding a container of eyeballs. In all of her thrashing, she managed to throw them all over the room before finally letting the beaker crash to the floor. Gabriel was laughing so hard that there were tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, finally unable to contain it anymore.

"You evil… EVIL little beast!" she shrieked, grabbing for him. She would have caught him too if he hadn't handed her the mouse.

"What did you forget?" John asked as the cabbie drove them back toward Baker Street. "You never forget anything."

"My mobile. I _need_ it. And I was so distracted by Gabriel this morning that I left it sitting on the nighttable." Sherlock sighed. He never used to forget things. "I'll just run up and get it," he said as the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B. Sherlock burst out of the cab in his usual dramatic fashion, sprinting across the sidewalk and fumbling for his keys. He paused, realizing that something was different. He looked at his keychain, examining each key trying to pinpoint what was out of place. "The fridge key… why would I have taken it off?" he wondered aloud. He shrugged and peeled off the house key, but before he could get it into the lock, the door flew open and Mrs. Barrett nearly bowled him over as she bolted out the door. "Mrs. Barrett?" he called.

"I quit!"


	6. Atonement

**A/N: So silly me, I didn't even realize that my section breaks were getting eaten. Oops... I fixed it this time, so that should help a bit. Also, everyone notice my BEAUTIFUL cover art that features a fantastic sketch of our Gabriel. Thanks for all the follows, reviews, and kind words. You guys know who you are and I appreciate each and every word of encouragement! I do hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel and the battleaxe schoolmarm.**

John's mobile rang and he sighed, knowing who it would be before he even took it out of his pocket. A glance at the screen confirmed his suspicions and he answered, despite his better judgment. "Hello?"

"John! Where the Hell are you and Sherlock? I've been calling his mobile and he isn't answering!" Greg Lestrade's voice sounded annoyed and urgent. "We've been standing out here in the cold for over an hour waiting!"

"I know, I know… look, we've had a little problem. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"There's cops and medical examiners swarming all over. Anderson's chomping at the bit to get in the area and Donovan is, not to put too fine a point on it, busting my balls. I need you here now!"

"Well I don't know what to tell you, Greg. Sherlock's kind of uhm… busy at the moment." Though it didn't look like it, Sherlock was, in fact, otherwise engaged. He was sitting at the kitchen table, both sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows with a nicotine patch adorning each forearm. A cup of tea sat in front of him, untouched but still steaming. Gabriel moved slowly around the kitchen, sweeping Mrs. Hudson's enormous broom over the floor and sniffling to himself. Not that he could be blamed. After the shouting that had ensued when Sherlock saw the state of the flat, John almost cried himself. Gabriel's tears had settled into the shaky sobs of a criminal who wasn't a bit sorry he'd committed his crime but infinitely sorry that he'd been caught. He wasn't sure how much progress the child was making, but as Sherlock had pointed out, it was the principle.

"There's more shards of porcelain under the edge of the fridge," Sherlock commented, picking up his teacup.

"How much longer do I have to do this?" Gabriel whined, leaning on the broom handle.

"This? Oh, not much longer. The teacup is almost cleaned up. Then of course the floor will have to be mopped as the linoleum is sticky with a paste of sugar and red pepper. And then, the wreckage of the lounge. The whole job shouldn't take you more than a few hours." Sherlock picked up a book and began flipping through it, seemingly indifferent to Gabriel's distress. "But buck up, Gabe. At least you don't have to clean up the glass and eyeballs in my bedroom."

Gabriel gave a heavy whine and stomped his feet. "I can't clean, I'm just a little person."

"Yeah? You seemed pretty grown up when you were burning little old ladies with homemade acid and scaring them out the door."

"But Dad… I didn't…"

Sherlock peered over the edge of the book. "Really? Were you planning on pleading 'not guilty' given who I am, what I do and the astounding amount of evidence?"

John choked in Lestrade's ear, nearly dropping the mobile. "Ahem… yes… we'll be there in a half hour." He hung up and cleared his throat. "That was Lestrade. He says we need to get there quick."

"Yes, as soon as Mrs. Hudson gets here," Sherlock sighed. "She'll need to come up and supervise Gabriel while he finishes cleaning the flat. And Gabriel, do pray that she doesn't find Frodo the mouse before you do."

"Sam," Gabriel mumbled.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

Mrs. Hudson arrived ten minutes later carrying a plate of scones in one hand and her cup of tea in the other. "All right, I'm here finally. I had to change from my dressing gown. It isn't decent to be seen in one's dressing gown." She sat down at the table. "Gabriel, dear, I brought you some scones since you didn't get to finish yours before."

"No, Gabriel has had quite enough breakfast this morning," Sherlock sighed, rising from his place. "And don't let him watch telly for the rest of the day. I'm sure he'll be busy enough."

Gabriel's head shot up from his work. "What about when I finish?"

"Well, when you finish, you'll need a bath so that you don't look like a street urchin when you make your apologies."

"My apple-jeez?"

"Ap-pol-o-gies," Sherlock sounded. "I've already been in touch with Mrs. Barrett and she'll be expecting us at four so that you might tell her that you're sorry for your behavior this morning."

"What?!" Gabriel's lip trembled. "Dad, nooo…"

"Oh yes. The poor woman will have nightmares for the rest of her life, but at least your conscience will be clear." He gave a smug grin and brushed his fingers affectionately through Gabriel's hair. Sherlock and John went to the top of the stairs, pulling their coats on.

"No," Gabriel said, marching over to his father, dragging the broom behind him.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, staring down.

"NO! I will not apple-gize to Ms. Barrett!"

"Oh yes. You will, Gabriel."

"NO NO NO!" he protested, accenting each negative with another stomp of his little foot.

John stared. "Oooh kay… I'll just go get a cab." He rushed down the stairs before they could stop him.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gabriel," he sighed. "When you do something wrong, you must say that you're sorry…"

"You're a liar!" he shouted, throwing the broom down at his father's feet.

"Gabriel!"

"You are! You're a liar! You said I didn't have to say I'm sorry if I'm not! And I'm not sorry! She was mean to me, so I was mean to her back! I will NOT say I'm sorry! You can lock me in my room or beat me if you want to, but I'm not going to say sorry to her!" And with that he burst into tears and ran to his room, the door slamming behind him.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"What do you think he meant by 'mean'?" Molly asked, walking along the perimeter of the crime scene with Sherlock and John.

"She's an English schoolteacher," John said. "If she wasn't mean there'd be something wrong with her."

Molly laughed. "That's not true. My friend Mary is an excellent teacher. A governess, really, and actually very nice."

Sherlock sighed. "Maybe I should just let it go. To be honest, I wasn't particularly fond of Ms. Barrett either. She reminded me of my great-aunt that used to pull my hair and push her dentures out at me."

"That's disgusting," John mumbled.

"No no… you can't just let it go, Sherlock. Even if she was a nasty old woman, he could have hurt her. You can't just let that pass." Molly nodded, unzipping the bulky coveralls she wore. "Otherwise every time someone comes over that he doesn't like, he'll throw a cup of eyeballs at them." She and John both giggled. "I can't believe he did that."

"Yes, very amusing. I don't notice either of you volunteering to help me clean them up."

"You have to hand it to the kid, he's inventive," John said.

"He is most definitely your child, Sherlock," Molly continued, biting her lip to stifle her laughter.

"Are you implying that I would try to kill a teacher with doctored tea, a beaker full of eyeballs and John's rollerblades?"

"Yes," Molly and John answered in unison.

Molly's eyes lit up suddenly. "You know, my friend Mary _is_ a qualified governess. And I think she's between jobs. I could call her if you like."

"Do people even still have governesses?" John asked.

"Apparently so," Molly replied. "I don't think they live in anymore…"

"Thank God. No one else is moving in," Sherlock grumbled.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Mrs. Hudson didn't go up to check on Gabriel for an hour. She figured she'd let him have his cry and get it over with. Sometimes you just needed to cry. Poor thing, after having overheard that awful woman talking to Gabriel, she couldn't say she blamed him for retaliating. Granted, he shouldn't have done it, but it wasn't unwarranted. The really funny part was that it was completely expected that Sherlock's child would come up with that.

She stopped at the door and put her ear close to the wood, listening closely. All was quiet and she tapped lightly. "Gabriel, dear? Are you in there?" He didn't answer and for a moment Mrs. Hudson was afraid that he'd climbed out of the window. She tried the knob and found that the door wasn't locked. Slowly she pushed the door open and saw that Gabriel was lying across the bed with his face buried in the pillows. "Oh, Gabriel… you poor thing. Are you all right?" She sat down on the bed beside him and rubbed gentle circles on his back.

"No!" he cried. "I'm not all right at all!" He sat up and let Mrs. Hudson embrace him. He laid his head on her shoulder, still sniffling. "I'm not going to say sorry to her, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not sorry at all."

"I know, sweetheart," she said rocking him. She felt his little body shudder as he began crying again. "Shh… there there, dear. It isn't worth all this. You've got so much pride, you know. Just like your father. It makes you both stubborn old mules. Sometimes, though, you have to swallow all that pride and admit you made a mistake."

Gabriel pushed back. "But I didn't! She was mean to me."

"What do you mean?"

"She made me read baby books and she stared at me when I read and if I got a word wrong, she would always yell at me! She told me I was dumb…"

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes. "Did she actually say that to you?"

"No, but whenever I got words wrong, she'd say 'you're too low for this book.' She said my apples came off a different tree!" He burst into a fresh torrent of sobs and threw himself against her.

Mrs. Hudson held the little boy tight, stroking his hair and trying to soothe him. "Poor darling… why didn't you tell anyone that before?"

"Because Dad was busy and I didn't want him to think I wasn't smart. I thought if she just quit coming that he wouldn't find out how dumb I am."

Gripping his shoulders, she held the little boy so that she was staring into his eyes. "Gabriel Holmes! You stop saying you're dumb right this second." Mrs. Hudson didn't often get angry but this Barrett woman tried her patience. Imagine that! Letting a child think that he was dumb. "As far as brains go, you've got the best in Britain. Top of the line! And that's just genetics. If you ask me, she's the one with mental problems!" She kissed his forehead and used a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket to dry his eyes. "There, no more crying. We'll go downstairs and have that scone and a bit of tea…"

"But Dad said…"

"Pssht… the old sod isn't here now, is he?" Gabriel shook his head. "All right, you go into the bath and wash your face. I'll fix you a cuppa with lots of honey and milk and then me and you will finish cleaning up downstairs." Gabriel managed a small smile and nodded, doing as he was told. She watched him leave the room, closing the door to the bath behind him. Her expression darkened and she hurried downstairs. She had a phone call to make.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Gabriel curled up as tight as he could in the corner of the cab as he rode beside Sherlock across town. He hadn't said a word, afraid that he would start crying again. His father hadn't said much since picking him up, but he didn't mention their earlier argument. Gabriel couldn't tell if he was still angry or not. He hoped not. Over the course of the last month, he had become very attached to Sherlock. And John and Mrs. Hudson and Doctor Molly. Maybe if he was mad, then he'd send him away. Now that Baker Street was his home, he couldn't imagine having to go back to St. Christopher's. He also liked that he was almost like a regular kid now with a dad and a family to care about him. Going back would be so lonely. It was enough to make him sad again and he felt that tight, burning feeling in the corners of his eyes and jaw.

"Dad?" he murmured.

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat, trying to keep it from wavering. But Mrs. Hudson had told him that he needed to speak up for himself. "Are you going to send me back to the convent?"

Sherlock's head jerked up from his mobile. "What? Why would you think that?"

"Because you're mad at me for messing up the flat and being mean to Ms. Barrett."

"Gabriel, I'm not mad at you. At least not anymore. And even if I was, I wouldn't send you away. You're my child and despite what others might think, I'm not unaware of the gravity of that responsibility." Gabriel nodded, still not really understanding. "Besides that, I do like you." Sherlock winked at him. "Even when you're bad."

Gabriel gave a sigh of relief and snuggled closer to his father. After their row earlier, he had been convinced that Sherlock wouldn't like him anymore. And though he was worried about having to choke out an apology to that awful Ms. Barrett, the thought of being unloved again was worse. "Dad?"

"Yes, Gabriel?"

"I'm not sorry about Mrs. Barrett…"

Sherlock sighed. "I know, but…"

"But I am sorry I was bad to you."

Sherlock nodded and hugged the little boy, pressing a light kiss to the messy curls at his crown. "I suppose I forgive you."

The cab screeched to a halt in front of a tiny house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Barnes. Gabriel thought it looked a little bit like Strega Nona's house in his book. Except it didn't have the chicken feet. And he guessed that Ms. Barrett wasn't a child-eating witch. He hoped not. Sherlock got out of the cab first and held the door for Gabriel who stepped out slowly. "Oi, can you wait?" Sherlock asked the cabbie who replied with a short nod. He took Gabriel's hand and led him to the front door.

Gabriel dragged his feet, wanting to postpone his date with doom as long as possible. Funny, he had never envisioned this part when devising his plan. He'd assumed that Ms. Barrett would run screaming into the street and be gone. He'd never have to see her again. It might have worked if his father hadn't forgotten his mobile. When they got to the door, Sherlock rapped lightly and smiled reassuringly at Gabriel.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, and Gabriel. I was expecting you. Do come in," she said, honey dripping from her words. The lady was good at pretending to be nice, Gabe observed. "I'm afraid I look a bit frightful. I've been lying down all day after my harrowing morning." She crossed to her tiny flowered settee and sat down daintily. Gabriel looked all around, observing the yards of pink and cream colored material that had been sacrificed to decorate her sitting room. Splashes of large flowers adorned every surface and three cats slinked in and out between her ankles.

"Of course, Ms. Barrett. And we won't be taking up much of your time." He nudged Gabriel forward and the boy stood in front of her with his head low. "Gabriel, don't you have something to say to Ms. Barrett?"

He sighed and cast a pleading glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. "I… I'm sorry Ms. Barrett. I was just playing a joke. I didn't mean to hurt you. Please forgive me." He looked back at Sherlock again as if to say "is that enough?". He nodded and Gabriel rushed back to him, sighing with relief.

"Of course, child," Ms. Barrett said, a grin on her face not unlike the large silver cat that leapt up on her lap. "Boys will be boys."

"Indeed," Sherlock replied cooly. "Gabriel, would you please wait for me on the porch? Don't get in the cab, just wait there. I have to settle up with Ms. Barrett."

Gabriel nodded and went outside, closing the door behind him.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

As soon as he heard the door close, Sherlock turned his cold, blue-green eyes on the old woman. "Do you delight in torturing children, Ms. Barrett?"

The plastic smile she had glued on her face instantly melted at hearing his tone. "Pardon?"

"I'm not sure if you know who I am or what sort of work I do, but I can assure you that in my experience, when something doesn't seem right, it usually isn't. You call yourself a tutor of children, but honestly, I'm not quite sure what would propel you toward that purpose. I can deduce, given that your house is devoid of all pictures of children or family, by the looks of your hand, you've never been married and that you have cat hair on every surface, that not only do you not have children, but that you have done everything in your power to repel them."

"Surely you must realize that a childless woman is quite capable of teaching them," Ms. Barrett huffed.

"Indeed. But not a heartless woman that loathes children."

"How dare you!" Ms. Barrett sputtered.

"How dare **_you_**, Ms. Barrett." Sherlock's voice slid lower and dripped with venom. "I left my child in your care and you very nearly broke him. Gabriel is a scared little boy, desperate to please and hungry for affection but you ridiculed him and made him believe that he was stupid and that only you could save him from his idiocy. I brought Gabriel to you so that he might apologize for any pain he might have caused, but I now realize that red pepper and a twisted ankle are far too good for you." Sherlock pulled five twenty pound notes from his wallet and tossed them on her coffee table. "I think this should settle our account," he said, turning on his heel and exiting quickly.

Sherlock came through the door and held his hand out for Gabriel. "Come on. Are you hungry? What's say we call the others and have dinner."


	7. Pizza and Potential

**A/N: Just a short, fluffy filler piece. Things had gotten far too serious, I thought. Thanks again for your awesome feedback! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.**

One of Gabriel's new favorite things was Pizza Night. Every Tuesday, no matter what else was going on, his dad, John, him, Mrs. Hudson and most times, even Doctor Molly and Greg, would order pizzas at Baker Street and gorge themselves on the cheesy delicacy. Even his dad, who never ate, would indulge in that most perfect of foods. At the convent, Gabe had never looked forward to meals. Most of them tasted exactly the same and the menu never varied: oatmeal for breakfast, something gray with meat for lunch and leftovers or soup for dinner. They only had dessert at Christmas time. Certainly no scones with honey or jam, chocolate biscuits or fizzy drinks that tickled your nose.

"So I called my friend, Mary," Molly chirped, unpacking her shopping bag. "She's available to see Gabriel a few times a week. I mean, if you think Sherlock would be okay with it."

John shrugged, taking a bottle of wine from Molly and working the corkscrew into it. "I don't know, Molly. After that debacle with Ms. Barrett, I'm not sure he's willing to try that again."

"I don't want another teacher," Gabriel grumbled, counting napkins for everyone. "They're mean."

"Not all of them," Molly said, gathering glasses. "Mary's the sweetest thing ever. I know you'd like her if you met her, Gabe."

He shrugged. "Maybe." Meeting new people was still a little difficult for Gabriel. Mrs. Hudson had insisted he play with other kids at the park the week before. They were playing a game where everyone hid and one person had to find them. They weren't following the rules at all and Gabriel got angry, kicking sand on one boy and pushing another one down until Mrs. Hudson finally walked him back to the flat. "Where's the pizza?" he asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

"Your dad and Greg are supposed to be picking it up on their way back."

Molly looked around nervously then nudged John on the arm. "How many did you order?"

"Four. Just like usual."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good. There should be enough then."

"Isn't there always?"

"Well… I sort of… asked Mary to come along. I thought she could meet Gabriel and Sherlock… maybe they'd hit it off, you know. She's really in desperate need of a job and when we had lunch today she just seemed so… lonely. Ever since her fiancé broke things off last summer, she's been kind of… you know, depressed. And then she lost her job. It's just a mess for her, I'm afraid. Do you think I should order another pizza?"

John laughed. "I think it will be fine. You worry too much, Molly."

She shrugged, reaching up to get plates from the cabinet and handing them to Gabriel. "Well… maybe. But I don't want Sherlock to think I'm being pushy. He was saying that he should find someone and that he couldn't trust Mycroft to do it for him this time."

"But why do I have to have a teacher," Gabriel whined. "I thought I was fine on my own."

"Don't you want to go to school with the other kids?" Molly asked.

"No," he answered with no hesitation whatsoever. If the kids at the park were any indication, he'd just as soon leave them alone.

"But don't you want to have friends to play with?"

"I have all of you," he replied. "And it's more fun to stay with Mrs. Hudson when John and Dad are working." His eyes lit up as he heard the front door open and he dashed down the stairs.

"Gabriel! Don't run!" John called. "He's going to break his neck one day."

As soon as Sherlock's feet touched the mat, Gabriel was scrambling into his arms. "Hi, Dad!"

Sherlock nearly dropped his shoulder bag trying to support Gabriel's weight. "Oh careful…" he said. "There's part of an experiment in there."

Gabriel laughed and threw his arms around his father's neck. "I thought you were never going to get here." That morning Sherlock was gone by the time Gabriel awakened and he hadn't seen him all day. "I'm really hungry."

"So you're only glad to see me if I brought food?"

Gabriel giggled. "No… I'm always glad to see you, Dad. But if you have food, that makes it even better."

"Oh I see. But the man you should be talking to is Lestrade." He jerked his head back, gesturing toward Greg Lestrade who was struggling through the door with a tower of pizza boxes.

Gabriel peered over his father's shoulder and waved at the Detective Inspector. "Hi."

"Hey there, kid. You said you were hungry?"

"Yes!"

"Well that's a shame. We didn't bring any for you. I'm afraid you'll just have to eat beans for dinner."

Gabriel stuck his tongue out at Greg. "You're just teasing me."

"You think so?" Greg asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

They climbed the stairs to find that the counters and tables had been cleared for pizza and boxes. Molly and John already had glasses of wine and Molly was in the process of pouring one for Sherlock and Greg. There weren't enough places to sit in the dining area, so they just sat all over the place, usually with the telly on. Sherlock set Gabriel on the floor gently as he took the glass of wine from Molly with a whispered thank you. Soon everyone was sitting around talking and laughing. Gabriel wondered if everybody's family was like this or just his. At St. Christopher's, they weren't supposed to talk during mealtimes, much less laugh and joke with one another. Even his father, who was normally so serious and preoccupied, was relaxed on Pizza Night. Gabriel was sitting on his lap, listening to them talk, stealing pepperonis off of his pizza, when Molly's phone buzzed.

"Oh! That's me. I bet that's Mary." She pulled her mobile from her pocket and stared down at the face. "One second… I'll be right back," she said, excusing herself down the stairs.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson tonight?" Greg asked, pulling another slice of pizza from the open box on the coffee table.

"Visiting her sister," John explained. "She left this afternoon as soon as I got here. She said she'd be back Thursday night."

"Who will stay with me?" Gabriel asked, taking a bite out of a slice of pizza that was larger than his head.

"I'll be here tomorrow," Sherlock said, pushing Gabriel gently to the side so he could stand. "Unless something comes up, in which case… I'll just take you along."

"YES!" Gabriel exclaimed. "Dead bodies and blood!"

"You're a bit scary, aren't you?" Greg said, staring at Gabriel with an expression that was both amused and horrified. Gabriel gave an evil laugh and rolled all over the couch.

Everyone stopped and looked toward the stairs, hearing female voices ascending. When Molly emerged from the stairwell, she was leading a pixie-like woman with short blonde hair and a tinkling giggle that made everyone involuntarily smile. "Everyone, this is my friend Mary Morstan," Molly said. "Mary, this is everyone," she continued, gesturing around the room.

"Hello. I'm so sorry I'm late but the traffic was terrible. I was trying to get from Soho to here and it was a nightmare. Two idiots on a motorbike nearly ran me down! I swear the guy on the back was changing clothes while in motion and paying fuck all attention to the road." It was out of her mouth before she realized that Gabriel was standing in front of her, looking up with those enormous, accusing eyes. "Hello, you," she said.

"You aren't supposed to say that word, you know," Gabriel said, matter of factly.

"You're probably right, but sometimes it's the only word that fits." Mary replied. "You must be Gabriel." She offered her hand. He looked at it with suspicion and finally took it, shaking vigorously.

Molly giggled. "Yep, that's our Gabe. Doesn't he look angelic? Of course, he's no angel."

"I can tell. He's got mischief just dripping off those cherub cheeks," Mary replied with a dazzling smile that made Gabe smile too. "But it's ok, Gabe. So do I." Molly took her arm and led her into the room, making short introductions along the way. "This is Sherlock," Molly said, looking down to hide the blush that had risen on her cheeks.

"Oh yes… I've heard about you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Oh?"

"Well of course. The genius detective that faked his own death and came back from the grave… oh wait… you aren't a zombie are you?" Mary asked, her expression deadly serious. "Because that would be so disappointing."

"I'm afraid nothing so dramatic," Sherlock replied.

"Not to hear Molly tell it," she said, her eyebrow quirked.

Gabriel took Mary's hand again and dragged her over to where John sat on the floor. "This is John. He's a doctor. He's not gay."

"Gabriel!" the entire room exclaimed at once. John's face went purple.

"Well he's not," Gabriel sighed, shrugging.

John stood up, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry." He took Mary's hand, "John Watson. Nice to meet you."

Gabriel watched them exchange glances. His nose wrinkled as he tried to sort out what it was they were doing. They looked dazed, almost intoxicated as they gazed at one another, shaking hands for a little longer than necessary. "You can let go of her hand now, John," Gabriel sighed. Sherlock took the cue to grab Gabriel from behind and hoist him up on his narrow hip.

"Leave people alone," he grumbled at him, sitting back down on the couch and situating the child on one side with another piece of pizza.

"Wait, I do know you, Dr. Watson. I read your blog!" Mary said.

"Oh God…" Sherlock sighed.

Greg snorted. "What have you got to worry about? At least you always come out looking clever and eccentric. I just look like an idiot."

"You _are_ an idiot," Sherlock retorted.

"Practically everyone is," the room answered in unison then erupted in laughter.

John took Mary's arm and led her into the kitchen. "Let me get you a drink and a plate." Soon everyone was situated again, having their own private conversations. The room buzzed with it. It wasn't quiet but it wasn't loud. Gabe felt comforted in this atmosphere and before long he was leaning on Sherlock's arm, looking over at the book open on his father's lap, his eyelids getting heavy. Mary had taken Molly's chair and John sat beside her on the floor, taking it upon himself to relate the saga of Ms. Barrett, with others occasionally joining in. Sherlock sat silently, still not completely comfortable with the sudden influx of a social life that seemed to surround him lately.

**OoOoOo**

Molly stood up and stretched, rubbing her back from where she'd been sitting on the floor talking to Greg. "I must be getting old," she sighed. "Sitting on the floor doesn't really agree with me anymore."

"There's room over here," Gabriel said, pointing at the narrow, empty space beside Sherlock on the end of the couch. "Budge up, Dad." Sherlock sighed and pulled Gabriel into his lap, shifting so that there was room for her.

"Oh… thanks…" Molly said. She carefully stepped over the plates and cups that were strewn around the coffee table. She was doing well until the edge of her shoe caught one of the napkins and she stumbled, sitting down on the couch hard, nearly landing on top of Sherlock and Gabriel. "Sorry…" she mumbled, trying to recover. She could feel herself blushing hotly and mentally she kicked herself. She thought she had moved beyond this schoolgirl crush on Sherlock, but every now and then it was there, just as strong as it had been before. There were times when talking to him was as easy as breathing, and other times when she was positively lost for words. Times like now when he didn't seem to be paying any attention, though she knew he was taking everything in. When his blue eyes were downturned over a book or a file or that damned microscope. Or when she could tell that there was a storm going on inside his funny odd head. What was he thinking about? Some days she dared to think it might be her and then she'd become that giggly, silly old mess that she'd always been. Everyone around her was talking, but she wasn't listening. She could only sit by Sherlock and try not to concentrate too hard on the heat of his thigh against hers.

"So basically, Gabriel needs a teacher who realizes how truly exceptional he is, right?" Mary chirped, jerking Molly back to reality. Gabriel, upon hearing his name, jumped up from his seat and immediately climbed into Mary's lap. "That woman must have been blind not to realize what an indescribable wonder you are."

"She said my apples weren't from the same tree," Gabriel said. Everyone laughed.

"I think you mean, 'the apple fell far from the tree,'" Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever. I thought it sounded pretty mean."

"Well that's just silly. I think you have very promising apples," Mary cooed, pinching his cheek lightly.

John cleared his throat. "Well, Gabe needs some help just to fill in his gaps. I mean, Sherlock and myself haven't done too badly teaching him to read and write, but I'm sure a qualified teacher could do a much better job."

"I'm sure you're doing fine. Maybe just a few mornings a week? Or I could stay with him longer if you like. I don't mind."

"Do you like mice?" Gabriel asked, playing with the pin on her lapel. "Cuz I have two mice: Frodo and Sam."

"They aren't yours, Gabriel. They belong to the lab and they're going back when I'm done with the experiment. Though I think the most interesting thing we've found out about Sam is that he has a very strong heart," Sherlock said, not looking up.

John sighed. "What he really means is, do you mind catching them when he lets them out? I don't think Mrs. Hudson's heart would stand it again."

Mary laughed. "I adore mice. And what awesome names for them." She leaned in to whisper in Gabriel's ear. "I have a thing for hobbits, myself."

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel emerged from the bath, wrapped in a gigantic, fluffy white towel as he hobbled across the hall to his bedroom. "It's cold!" he exclaimed, his chin trembling.

Sherlock marched behind him like a bridesmaid holding up his train. "Well hurry up, then," he grumbled. "The sooner you get your pajamas on, the sooner you can get warm under the blankets." He scooted past, throwing open Gabriel's wardrobe and finding a set of pajamas.

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. "I wanted to wear the skully ones."

"The ones you've worn every night for a week? I'm sorry, they climbed out of the basket on their own, went downstairs and threw themselves in the washing machine. I'm afraid the boring plaid ones will have to do."

He sighed and allowed his father to help him into his pajamas and then use the towel to scrub the excess water out of his hair. "We need to have this cut. It's getting far too long, Gabe. Isn't it in your eyes?"

"Not too much."

"Mmm…" Sherlock replied. "I'm not sure I believe that. It will probably be wild in the morning, but we don't have time to let it dry since you were up so late." Sherlock paused, thinking how absurd he sounded and shaking his head. He'd been having some kind of identity crisis since Gabriel came to Baker Street. "All right, I think that's as good as it gets. In you get." He pulled back the covers and let Gabriel slide under.

Gabriel pulled out his favorite book and flipped to the story about the dragon again. "This one."

"Again?" Sherlock sighed. "Don't you want to hear a different story? You know how this one comes out."

"Nope. That one." He pointed at the page insistently. "And do the voices too."

He sighed. "All right, then." He cleared his throat and began reading. "Each kingdom was to send their most beautiful maiden as tribute to the dragon…"

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think John likes Mary?"

"I guess. Don't you like Mary?"

"Well yeah, but I don't mean like that. I mean he likes her like he wants to kiss her, I think."

"It's possible, I suppose." Sherlock opened the book to start again. "Wait… how do you know about kissing and people liking each other?"

"I watch EastEnders with Mrs. Hudson sometimes. They kiss all the time on that show."

Sherlock looked disgusted. "I can't believe she's rotting your brain with that drivel. Don't watch it anymore."

Gabriel shrugged. "It's mostly boring. I don't know why boys would want to kiss girls anyway."

Sherlock started to respond, but then realized that he had no idea what to say. "Ahem… The dragon streaked across the sky, circling the maiden as she fought against the chains that held her to the rocky crags…"

"Dad?"

Sherlock sighed and threw the book aside dramatically. "Yes?"

"I think Doctor Molly likes you."


	8. Nightmares Before Christmas

**A/N: So I was kind of all over the place with this today. A little fluffy, a little angsty. I've been getting some lovely reviews and I appreciate every one. It feeds my muse and reminds me why I write, so thank you all! :) I've also had some folks screaming for Sherlolly. The Sherlolly is on its way, have no fear. Just be patient... I'm more of a novelist than a quick draw..LOL**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel. As usual.**

Sherlock didn't **_hate_** Christmas. It was more that he was **_uncomfortable_** with Christmas. He didn't get it. As a child, Christmas was just like any other day, for the most part. When his grandmother was alive, she insisted on everyone coming to her country estate for Christmas Eve, but it wasn't exactly a warm, family occasion. More like the stuffy, posh social event of the year. For that reason, he always associated Christmas with stiff wool jackets and the smell of that legion of yappy Yorkshire terriers that followed her around. Presents were often either useful items like socks or dress shirts or completely impractical items like Eighteenth Century hunting rifles or silver whisky flasks with your initials engraved on the side. When Sherlock was a little boy, before his parents were divorced, the only time he ever received toys were the little things that he and Mycroft would exchange. Each would save their allowance for several weeks before Christmas and then use the money to buy one another something frivolous. Indeed it was Mycroft who had given him his very first magnifying glass. Once their little family had begun to fall apart, Christmas didn't mean much anymore. It was just a day. Nowadays, he and Mycroft barely spoke, their parents and grandparents were dead… there was no family left to speak of. Though he didn't like to admit it, when others spoke of going out of town to visit relatives or popping over to Christmas parties, Sherlock felt sad. The sadness, over the years, had turned to cold bitterness and hence there was no love lost between Christmas and Sherlock Holmes.

"Look, Dad!" Gabriel shouted, pointing at the television. "An advertisement for the Christmas tree lighting in the square! Can we go?"

Sherlock glanced up at the television. "Oh… well… probably." He was a little puzzled. Gabriel had admitted that he didn't know much about Christmas other than the basic Christian themes that had been drilled into his head by the nuns at St. Christopher's. So his excitement about a Christmas tree was a little surprising.

"John and Mary said we were getting a Christmas tree soon."

"If you want one, I suppose," Sherlock sighed.

"Hooray!" Gabriel exclaimed. He watched a little more, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands supporting his chin. Sherlock peered over the edge of the book, observing him and his reactions to the ads. He could almost feel the excitement radiating off of the little boy as the Christmas frenzy began to kick into high-gear. Suddenly, Sherlock realized how alike they really were. Gabriel was aware of Christmas but it hadn't been anything special until now. And his excitement and wonder might just be enough to infect them all. "Oooh… it's Father Christmas! Dad, do you think there's such a thing as Father Christmas?"

Sherlock considered his answer. On one hand, he believed in complete honesty with everyone, including children. Of course, Gabe was only five and seemed so excited. How could he possibly dash it for him? "Absolutely," he replied. "How did **_you_** find out about Father Christmas?"

"The caretaker told me. He was pretty nice. He used to give me a present at Christmas. That's where I got my book with the dragon story. He said it was his when he was a little kid."

"That was pretty nice of him," Sherlock replied.

"He was nice. He said I reminded him of his little boy that had died." Gabe's statement was weighty and it struck a chord with Sherlock. Even though he'd only known of Gabe's existence for a little more than a couple of months, already he knew that if something terrible happened, his life would be devastated. "Father Christmas… there's just one of them right?"

"I think so. Lives in the North Pole or something like that. Hangs out with reindeer."

"So if there's just one, how can there be one on every street? Because when we were in the cab going to the shop the other day, I saw like five of them."

"Well…" Sherlock's brain raced to come up with an acceptable answer that wouldn't punch a hole in Gabriel's blind faith. Father Christmas is a Time Lord like Doctor Who. He can be in lots of places at the same time. That's how he gets all over the world in one night."

"Wow! Really?" Gabriel whispered, climbing into his father's lap.

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, starting to enjoy it now. "For Christmas, the TARDIS just looks like a sleigh. Which would also explain how he gets all those presents in there. The sleigh's bigger on the inside."

"Ahem…" They jumped as John cleared his throat. He and Mary stood at the top of the stairs, trying to swallow their laughter.

**OoOoOo**

At first it seemed like part of his dream, the distant screaming of a child. One of those things that in deep sleep seem insignificant. If you just don't pay attention, they'll go away. But this time it got louder and kept getting louder until Sherlock could make out one word distinctly: daddy.

Sherlock sat up with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and trying to focus. It was still pitch dark in the room, the streetlamps below still glowing. He pawed around at the nightstand to find his watch. The hands glowed blue, revealing that the time was 2:12am..

"Daddy!"

This time Sherlock leapt to his feet, pulling his pajama trousers on as he stumbled out of his bedroom and took the stairs two at a time. John poked his head out of his bedroom as Sherlock rounded the corner. "Should I come?" he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, fumbling with the doorknob. When he fell through the door, Gabriel was sitting straight up in his bed but his eyes were closed and he was pointing at something unseen in the corner. His breaths came in shuddering gasps and his little body was shaking all over. Sherlock rushed to his side, instinctively gathering the child in his arms. "Wake up, Gabriel," he murmured, still sleepy himself as he pinned the tiny arms to his sides before they could smack him in the face. The boy struggled, still reaching out for the invisible enemy even as his father held him. Every muscle in his little body was taut and quivering. The violence scared Sherlock and he shouted, "Wake up!" hoping that the firm tone of his voice would snap the boy out of this fugue. It worked and Gabriel's eyes opened. He was silent at first, obviously shedding the remnants of being asleep and trying to focus. "You're all right," Sherlock said, his voice gentler this time.

As soon as Gabriel's eyes focused on Sherlock, he burst into tears. Not his usual whimpering and sniffling, but full on tears that shook his body and drew heart-wrenching wails from deep down in his chest. Gabriel threw himself against Sherlock's bare chest sobbing into the hollow at the base of his throat. He immediately embraced the child, cradling him tightly and stroking his hair. "Shush… you're all right. It's over." He waited until Gabriel's sobs had subsided into heavy shudders and sniffles. "Let it go." Sherlock felt sorry for him. He'd had the same problem as a child and even now. Highly intelligent people often had extremely vivid dreams that lingered for hours afterward. So many times he'd awakened, his breathing labored and his skin beaded with sweat, still thinking he was standing on the roof at Bart's.

"Don't send me back," Gabriel whined. "I want to stay here."

"Gabriel, nobody's sending you anywhere."

"That's not what you said! You said you didn't know me. And I kept calling and calling and you couldn't hear me… and when I ran after you, you pushed me away and kicked me… and the nuns dragged me away again… and… and…" His words trailed off in another wave of tears that left him breathless and coughing until he was gagging on his own tears.

"Gabriel, you have to calm down before you make yourself sick," Sherlock said. He didn't want to be harsh, but babying the child would just drag the memory out longer so that he would relive the trauma over and over. He tucked Gabriel's head under his chin and rocked him gently. He looked up to see John and Mary peering around the doorframe.

"Everything okay?" John asked.

"He's fine. Just a nightmare," Sherlock replied, brushing Gabriel's hair, stringy and soaked with sweat, back from his forehead. The apples of his cheeks glowed crimson and salty streaks still glistened. His eyes were puffy and red. He looked a mess, but for the first time Sherlock could see the shade of Irene lurking.

"Gabe, I was just going down to make some tea," Mary said. "Would you like some?" Gabriel nodded. "Come on, then," she continued, reaching for him, but he wasn't having it. He turned away and held onto Sherlock tighter.

"It's all right, Mary. We'll come down," Sherlock said, standing up with Gabriel wrapped around his torso. He pulled Gabriel's thumb from his mouth and shifted him to his hip. "Don't suck your thumb," he whispered in the small boy's ear as they walked carefully down the stairs. "You're too big for that."

Sherlock and Gabriel sat down at the table with John as Mary filled the kettle with water. Gabriel still sniffled, but seemed to be interested as Sherlock shifted the microscope so that he could look inside. "I hope my staying is all right, Sherlock," Mary started. "John didn't think you'd mind. It was just so late and with the rain, getting a cab over here is almost impossible."

"Its fine," Sherlock replied, reaching around to show Gabriel how to change the magnification. Redirection was the best way to handle trauma. "Just don't hang from the chandeliers. Mrs. Hudson would be mortified in her time of life." Mary giggled and searched for the loose tea container. She and John had been dating for the last few weeks since they'd met and she began tutoring Gabriel. She was the first one of John's girlfriends that Sherlock hadn't found infinitely annoying. He supposed that was because Gabriel liked her so much. He'd progressed so far in such a little amount of time that soon they would have to decide if and where to send him to school. Mycroft seemed to be in favor of setting Gabe up to go off to some privileged boarding school as soon as possible, but Sherlock knew he wasn't going to let that happen. At least not until he was much older and could decide for himself. He'd spent far too much of his short life already being shoved off on others.

"Can Gabe have sugar in his tea so late?" Mary asked, setting a cup in front of him.

"Lots of honey and milk, please," Gabriel replied, not waiting for Sherlock to respond. Mary smirked and arched an eyebrow, looking to Sherlock. He nodded in agreement.

She winked and set the honey in front of him. "There. Put in as much as you like."

Gabriel upended the bottle, pouring the sticky liquid into his tea until Sherlock grabbed his hand, guiding it away. "You don't want to chew it, Gabe."

"I like a lot," he whined.

"Yes, but we do want you to blink again in life," Sherlock said.

"Hey, John," Gabriel started, slurping his tea. "Dad said we could get a Christmas tree."

"Excellent. We'll have to go look for one. Maybe on the weekend."

"I don't understand why all you people insist on bringing things meant for outside into the house. Remember the pumpkin carving incident?"

"Pumpkin carving incident?" Mary asked, sitting on John's lap with her teacup.

"Don't ask," John muttered.

"Let's put it this way," Sherlock began. "We're still finding pumpkin seeds behind the couch… in the fireplace… on the ceiling…"

"Not on the ceiling."

"Oh pardon me, on the crown molding."

"Oh don't be such an arse," John snarled. "Gabe, we'll get the biggest Christmas tree in London."

"Hooray!" Gabriel exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and knocking over his teacup, spilling the contents all over the table. "Oops…" Luckily there was a kitchen towel within easy reach. "I'm sorry, Dad…"

"Its fine," he grumbled, using the towel to dry himself and the table off. "If we haven't thrown Molly Hooper out yet, I think you're safe." Molly spilled something every time she came over. "I think that's our cue to get back to bed."

"Nooo… can't we just stay up?" Gabriel whimpered. "I don't want to go back to sleep. I might have that dream again."

Sherlock sighed. He was tired and starting to lose patience. "The possibility of your slipping back into the same bad dreams are remote at best."

"It could happen," Gabe retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

"Tell you what. You can sleep in my room." He lowered Gabriel to the floor and stood up. "Good night you two. Gabriel, give hugs to John and Mary." Gabriel hugged them both, even going so far as to blow a raspberry on Mary's cheek. Both men looked puzzled, but Mary giggled and returned it.

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock pulled the duvet back and gestured for Gabriel to climb into bed. Gabriel dove in and snuggled down under the covers. "Wow… your bed is big, Dad."

"I need lots of room," Sherlock replied, sliding in beside him.

"Well… you do got long legs. And big feet."

"Thanks, I think," he said, yawning and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

The light coming in from the streetlamps outside was just enough for Gabriel to make out the outlines of some of the things in the room. On the far side of the bed closest to Gabriel, there was a small photograph on the bedside table. It was unframed and unobtrusive. Gabriel picked it up and brought it close to his face so he could see it better. It was a picture of a woman with dark hair and round eyes. Her lips were so red that they looked almost black in the moonlight. "Dad…"

"Uh huh?" Sherlock replied, almost asleep.

"Is this my mom?"

Sherlock turned over fast, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. "What?"

"This picture. Is it my mom?"

Sherlock took the picture from Gabriel, not really sure what to say. Of course he couldn't deny it. What if he asked questions? "It is," he replied simply, handing the picture back to him.

Gabriel stared at the picture for a long time. Finally he said, "She was pretty."

"Yes she was."

"Can I have this?"

Sherlock nodded and lay back down.

"Thanks, Dad," Gabriel said and snuggled up to his father, clutching the picture of Irene close to his chest. Before long, both were sleeping.


	9. A Deliberate Association

**A/N: You asked for Sherlolly. I hope you were serious. This chapter's a little shorter just because I'm testing waters here. And I love a cliffhanger. Anywho, sacrifice some reviews to the hungry Muse. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel. **

It was entirely too early for Molly Hooper's taste. She clutched her cup of coffee, warming her hands and trying to figure out a way to stay asleep as she walked down the hall toward the morgue. It's interesting how your footfalls sound so heavy and imposing when you're the only one in a place. With nobody around, there's nothing to absorb the sound and you can hear the rhythm of your feet drumming out your heartbeat. It was the sound of loneliness and Molly knew it all too well. Especially in the earliest hours of morning when you were the only living person in the basement.

"5 AM," she sighed. "What in Hell could be so important at 5 AM? For God's sake the person's already dead." She wanted to blame Sherlock, but this time it wasn't his fault. Lestrade had called her to say that they were bringing a body and needed it processed immediately. And of course, Molly Hooper wouldn't mind coming in. She didn't have a family or kids or anything interesting going on in her life.

"Hey, Molly," the orderly on duty said as she punched her keycode into the door. It bleeped a decline tone accusingly.

"Hi, Andy. Day shift here already?"

"I'm pulling a twelve hour, just to help out. Early for you too isn't it?"

"Yeah, the police need me to do an autopsy pretty quick. So I just came in early. Has the ambulance come in yet?"

"Yeah, it came in about a half hour ago. I didn't know how long you'd be, so we just put the stiff in a drawer and I left the intake chart on your desk."

"Thanks." She smiled and punched the code once more, hoping the damn door would take it this time. Truth be told, she was a little uncomfortable around Andy. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He was a nice guy, but she didn't like how he looked at her. He'd asked her out once, but she declined. It wasn't that he was unattractive or boring. He just simply wasn't her type. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Mercifully, the door finally opened. "Anyway, see you later, Andy."

Molly walked into the morgue and flipped the switch, the overhead lights buzzing to life. She opened the door to her office and sighed as she saw the heap of files and charts that were piled haphazardly on the desktop. Everything was such a mess. Molly hated mess, but it always seemed to find her. No matter how hard she tried, everything was always cluttered. Finally, she found the chart on her new arrival. Anderson had made a few notes, mostly illegible and obvious. "Of course it was foul play, idiot," she grumbled. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here at 5 in the morning." It was so much easier when Lestrade attached notes on the body from John. Because he was a doctor, he knew what she was looking for and it helped to guide her dissection. "Well, better get started, Hooper," she said, giving herself her morning pep talk.

It was so cold in the morgue. She shivered and immediately went for her lab coat. It wasn't much, but it did fend off the chill. It was always a little chilly down here, for obvious reasons. It only really bothered her in the mornings when her body was still longing for the warmth of her bed. She hugged herself as she walked over to the bank of cold chambers that lined the back wall. She looked for the drawer number on the chart and groaned. Andy didn't write it down. So now she'd get to play a game of "Guess where the corpse is!" Mentally she went through the drawers she could eliminate because they had been occupied when she left the evening before. "The only possibilities are the last two… it's probably the one on top…" She walked over, tugging the door open with all her might. As long as Molly had this job, she'd never have to resort to a Soloflex machine. She rolled up her sleeves and slowly pulled out the tray.

She screamed bloody murder.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing in there?" she shrieked. He was laid out on the tray like a body, wrapped in his coat with his hands folded behind his head.

He held his head. "God, don't scream…" he groaned. "My head is already killing me."

"Why are you in there?"

"Would you believe I'm trying to get some sleep?"

"How long have you been in there?" Molly asked, looking worried. "I mean… it's a cold chamber. You'll freeze to death."

Sherlock looked at his watch. "I'd have at least an hour before hypothermia would set in. Which is an hour longer to sleep than I've had in the last forty-eight hours. And I knew you'd be in before that happened."

"I thought you never slept while you were working," Molly said.

"That was before I spent half my life running after a five year old," he grumbled.

"Well get up," she scolded, smacking his arm. "I'm going to get into trouble if someone sees you." He sat up and gracefully climbed off of the gurney. "So why haven't you been sleeping?"

"Gabriel's been having nightmares lately. The last two nights have been horrendous. John says it's because he's growing. Hormones and all that. I can't seem to concentrate on anything and when I get home I won't be able to just lie on the couch and think or sleep." The words had obviously been bottled up for a while and they tumbled out of his mouth and all over Molly in a frantic wave. "There's always someone there asking me what I'm doing or where I'm going and what should they do… For the first time, Molly… I'm tired of answering questions! I haven't been alone in weeks. Not hours, not days… WEEKS. Whenever I'm not playing with Gabriel or reading with Gabriel or putting him in the bath or the bed, then I'm trying to work while John and your friend, Mary play slap and tickle on the couch!"

Molly took his arm and led him to a chair. "Here, just sit down for a bit," she said. He was acting strange. So completely UN-Sherlock and it was scary. He was coming unhinged.

"Molly… I know you think I'm terrible," he sighed.

"Of course I don't, Sherlock." She smiled. "I think you sound exactly like every other parent I've ever known. It's only natural that you should have some adjustment anxiety."

"Uggh… what a dreadful word: **_parent_**. It sounds so… responsible. It doesn't really fit me at all."

"Oh I don't know about that. You've done wonderfully so far." She leaned on the table beside him. "Gabriel seems to be so happy. He obviously loves you to bits."

"I know. And I love him too, it's just that whenever I'm alone and thinking about my past history—I'm terrified. Very nearly petrified with fear that I'm not good enough for him."

"Oh Sherlock… that's…"

"No, its true, Molly. I've never had… friends before because I always just got… bored. I mean, what if I get bored with Gabriel? I wouldn't mean to. Just like I never mean to with friends, but I wouldn't be able to stop myself. Take his mother, for instance. My fascination with her was quick, intense and dissolved just as quickly. Once I realized that all of her cleverness was really just…engineered… I couldn't be bothered. Do you understand what I'm saying?" He glanced up at Molly, searching for some sign of disapproval on her face and finding none. "Gabriel is just so… trusting and wonderful… he deserves to have someone that is capable of loving and caring for him the way he needs. I'm so afraid that I'm not… capable. I find myself getting impatient with him when he's upset or doesn't understand something. I shouted at him last night when he knocked a case file on the floor. I mean, it was an honest mistake that I might have done myself, but I was just so… frustrated. And after, I felt just terrible…"

Molly laid a hand on his shoulder to halt the endless monologue that was coming out faster and faster. She was afraid that if she didn't stop him that he would stroke out right here on her table. "Stop. Everyone feels that way sometimes. You're stressed. Happens to the best of us, I'm afraid."

"I don't want to give the impression that I'm not happy, you know. I am happy. Very happy. Deliriously happy, most of the time. I never noticed how… lonely I was, I suppose." Sherlock made a sickened face. "Oh God… that sounds so… disgustingly sappy."

Molly giggled. "Trust me, you're still your obnoxious old self most of the time."

"As always, Dr. Hooper, your wit leaves me in stitches." Held up two fingers, one of which was still healing from the slide incident a few weeks previous, but his meaning with the gesture was not lost on Molly. She laughed again. "What do people do when they're like this?"

She shrugged. "Find a hobby… go dancing… kick the wall… go to the gym." She looked away, a blush rushing to her cheeks. "Friends with benefits."

Sherlock started to respond, but it died on his lips. "Friends with what?"

Molly bit her lip, trying not to look at him and steal a glance simultaneously. "Benefits. You know, friends that sleep together without actually having a relationship."

"Oh. That." He sighed. "I think that's how I got into this situation in the first place, Molly. If you could have even considered us friends. But why would I be stressed? I'm not unhappy."

"Sherlock," Molly started, stepping in front of him to look down into his face. She relished seeing him this way, calm and sullen. His lazy eyelids laying his sooty black lashes against his razored cheek. Every line and contour of his interesting face highlighted in the shadow cast by the harsh light overhead. "You know, sometimes getting what you want can be more stressful than not. People always think that being happy is easy but it's really more difficult than being sad. Especially when you're trying to make someone else happy too." His brow crinkled as he processed her words.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he murmured.

"For what?"

"For ever making you think that you weren't… smart. Or good enough. It was me. It was always me." Molly watched the shape of his lips as he spoke. So perfect in form, even down to the faded scar at the corner that only showed when he pouted.

"Well that's the problem, isn't it," she replied. "It was always you, Sherlock. Is always…" She turned away, cursing the butterflies in the pit of her belly. He was confiding in her and she couldn't stop thinking about how that perfect bow mouth might feel pressed against hers. "Anyway, just remember. A lot of people in this world never get to be happy like that." She stumbled, bumping into the corner of the gurney as she made her way back to the cold chamber, leaving Sherlock behind. She had to get away from him. He made her breathing far too labored and her heart too fast. He could read every flush, every sharp intake of breath. Simply put, Sherlock could read Molly. He made her feel exposed.

"I'll take it under advisement, Dr. Hooper."

She realized that she'd left the chart across the room on the table and turned, running directly into Sherlock. God, he smelled like Heaven. Leather and stolen nicotine. "Oh! Sorry. I didn't know you were…" He stopped her stammering with a soul-stealing kiss. His arms wound around her waist, pulling her body against his and deepening their embrace. Molly was tense, almost as if her body was unable to believe that any of this was real. But it was. It was the most real thing she'd experienced in her life thus far and she wanted it to be neverending. Slowly his mouth moved against hers, caressing first her upper lip, then the lower, nibbling and teasing each one until she gasped. When she opened her mouth, his tongue slipped past her defenses and began mingling with hers. No one had ever kissed Molly this way and she was hesitant at first, but then the taste and heat of him was too much and she found herself kissing back. She followed his lead and found he was an excellent teacher. Before long her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him tightly as he pushed her against the cold metal of the drawer behind them. His body, so much broader and harder than it had been before, was a delicious and complicated contrast to her own softness and she burrowed deeper into his arms.

"I'm… I'm sorry…" he whispered, pulling back and dropping his arms. "I don't know why I did that."

"It's… fine. You're… I mean… it's fine." Her eyes met his once more and she found that she couldn't look away this time. "I uhm… have…"

"Autopsy."

"Yes."

"I'll leave you to it then," Sherlock said, the gravel still heavily coating his throat. "Good morning, Doctor Hooper." He brushed his lips once more across the edge of her hairline and then he was gone, once again leaving her wrapped in a blanket of uncertainty and hopeless desire.


	10. The Great State of Confusion, Population

**A/N: Well... that was a resounding YES on the Sherlolly. So we'll keep going with that! Thanks so much for all your reviews and feedback. This chapter's a teensy bit longer. It has less steam, but more Gabriel. And do forgive if it seems a little rushed. My work phone just wouldn't stop ringing! Damn you, real world! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel.**

What in the Hell was wrong with him? Sherlock lay on the couch in his dressing gown, an ice pack on his head and a cup of tea balanced on his chest. Lestrade had texted him at least a dozen times, but he hadn't replied. He didn't want to move. It wasn't just the migraine working its way around his head, squeezing ever tighter. He was confused and trying to figure some things out. There was little hope of that, though, and he'd resorted to counting the little pocks in the ceiling. He was up to 5,274 when John, Mary and Gabriel arrived back at the flat.

"Dad!" Gabriel exclaimed, running across the room bounding on to the couch, nearly upsetting Sherlock's teacup. "We saw the most awesome film!" Gabriel began chattering animatedly about the movie, his words going faster and faster to the amusement of the others. "And there was this wicked dragon that breathed fire!" Sherlock nodded in all the right places, but honestly wasn't paying much attention. His head was throbbing and he was so incredibly exhausted. "Mary got all scared when the big spiders showed up. I didn't think they were all that scary. I like spiders." He turned to Mary and John, "Don't you know that spiders eat all the other bugs so they aren't flying around irritating us all the time?"

"Those spiders didn't look like they were eating bugs," Mary replied with a shudder.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Anyway, so at the end they get to the dragon…"

"Shush!" John scolded. "Don't spoil the ending."

Gabriel clapped both hands over his mouth as if he could hold his words in with them. "Oops… sorry Dad." When Sherlock didn't answer, the little boy stared down at him thoughtfully. "Are you okay, Dad?"

Sherlock nodded and forced a small smile. "I'm ok, Gabe. Just tired," he sighed, pushing his tea aside.

Gabriel leaned in, throwing himself across Sherlock's chest and hugging him. "I'm sorry, Dad." He lay his head against his father's breastbone. "Wow, your heart's beating really fast."

"Is it?"

John's eyes narrowed and peered at the two of them, seeming to examine his friend. Sherlock already knew what John was thinking. He almost laughed. "Sherlock, are you sure you're ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Come on, Gabe. Let's go practice your maths before I go. You promised you'd practice after the cinema." Mary held her hand out for him and he grudgingly got to his feet.

Sherlock heard Gabriel gripe, "But I hate maths," on the way up the back stairs.

John walked over to the couch and grabbed his wrist without asking. He placed his fingers firmly over the vein and took a pulse. "Your pulse is elevated." Dropping his wrist, he knelt down and used his fingers to open one of Sherlock's eyes and peer inside.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock asked as John poked his finger in his eye.

"Your eyes don't look bloodshot." He glanced down, pushing the sleeve of the dressing gown up slightly. It was obvious what he was looking for and Sherlock was suddenly offended, jerking his arm away and sitting up.

"I'm not high, you idiot," he snarled, throwing the ice pack aside. "The only track marks you'll find on my arm are at least ten years old. I can't believe you'd think that I would have drugs around Gabriel."

"Well… you look like shit. You're flushed and wearing an ice pack. What the hell is the matter with you? Are you sick? Is that why you wanted us to take Gabriel away for the afternoon?"

"Well I do have a migraine, but that's not what's worrying me," he sighed, leaning back on the couch again and crossing his arms over his face. He hoped that John would just leave it at that and go away, but his doctor friend was never one to leave well enough alone. He just HAD to ask questions. Maybe if he just lay still…

"Then what is it? Is it the case?"

"God, no. Once they found the body, connecting it with Velasco was easy enough."

"What? How? When we got there the body was completely clean. Not even a hair."

"Nobody ever considers stomach acid," Sherlock replied boredly.

"Stomach acid?"

"Nevermind. It would take too long to explain." Sherlock rolled over on the couch, showing his back to John to indicate that the subject was closed.

"You really are knackered. Usually you're dying to explain. What is going on?" John goaded.

There was a long moment of silence as Sherlock considered his options. If he didn't tell John, then he'd never get to finish his nap. If he did tell him… Sherlock sighed. His nap was over. He sat up fast and glared at John, running his hands roughly through his hair in an attempt to push it out of his face. "I kissed Molly Hooper."

"What?"

"Oh God, don't make me say it again…" he sighed.

"You kissed Molly Hooper? You mean on the cheek to thank her for coming in so early to do that emergency post-mortem?"

"No… like on the mouth. My mouth on her mouth. Our bodies pressed together. There was an exchange of body fluids."

"Oooh…" John replied. "I see," then after a moment. "No… actually. I can't see that at all."

"Well I'm afraid I don't have any physical evidence."

John considered his friend's words for a moment, pacing as he mulled it over. "Are you absolutely sure? I mean, recovering addicts often have flashbacks of their hallucinations."

"So you think it's more likely that I'm having a flashback of a drug hallucination from ten years ago than kissing Molly Hooper?"

"Well… I mean… you're… you. I just…"

"Seriously? You just spent the afternoon with the final proof that I am capable of sexual intercourse and a kiss is what's unbelievable?"

"Well you're the one over here lying on the couch like you've just been diagnosed with the Black Plague! I mean, why did you kiss her?"

"That's the disturbing part. Why?" He steepled his fingers under his nose, thinking for a moment. "Maybe I was drugged. No… I didn't have any food or drink and I didn't notice any strange, foreboding mists…"

"Or maybe you like her."

"What?"

"You know, for someone who is so smart, you can be such an idiot sometimes. Pardon, _spectacularly ignorant_. Look, it's no secret to anyone that Molly carries a torch, nay a _blazing inferno _for you and has forever. And though you may not have always seemed to want her for yourself, you've had no problem chasing other people away from her. So evidently, there must be something there. The only real question is, how was it?"

"It was… strange. I didn't really set out to kiss her, but she was there and I was there and it just seemed like the right thing to do. And once I started, I just wanted to keep going. It's odd because a year ago, it would never have even occurred to me. You all assume that I'm this sexless creature, completely ignorant of anything erotic, simply because I'm not a slave to my libido. I can't be with someone that I don't see as my equal, nor can I be with someone who doesn't accept me the way I am, and no one ever does…"

"Molly does."

"Exactly." Sherlock sighed and threw himself dramatically against the back of the couch. "So what do I do?"

John raised an eyebrow, his nose crinkling. "You're asking me?"

"Well we've already established that _you're_ a slave to your libido. What do I do?"

"Ask her out. Take her flowers. Do whatever you do."

Sherlock sighed and laid down again, pulling his dressing gown tighter around his frame. "You're so much help, John," he sighed.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel sighed, flipping through the same book for the thousandth time. He lay on the cold tile floor in the lab at his father's feet. They had been there forever and Gabriel was now bored. He didn't usually mind going to the lab with his dad, but it wasn't usually an all-day affair. And usually there was somebody around to entertain him or his dad would show him what he was doing, but today was quiet at the medical lab at St. Bart's. John was working a double, Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's house and it was Mary's day off so there was no one to look after him but his dad, who had already planned a full day doing research. Even his hopes of being able to play on the jungle gym out back had been dashed when it started to rain. It was a terrible day.

"Dad… when can we goo?" he whined. "I'm bored."

"In a while," Sherlock replied, never looking up from the microscope.

"But when?" Gabriel asked again. He was at the age when he demanded accuracy and precision in everything. "We've been here for ages."

"When I'm done," Sherlock replied.

Gabriel sighed and flopped back on the floor again. He rolled over on his back and put his feet in the air, balancing the book on the heel of his shoe. It was a large, hardback picture book and it sat precariously on his foot as he reached up with his short arms to bat at it. He only succeeded in knocking it to the floor with a clatter. Gabe cast a glance up to his father, but Sherlock hadn't moved. He retrieved the book and began his balancing act again, this time trying to see if he could pass the book from one foot to the other without using his hands. Back and forth he juggled the book. He imagined he was one of the acrobats he'd seen on telly the night before, juggling the flaming hoop with his feet. Turns out books aren't weighted for that and after a few seconds, the book tumbled from its perch, hitting Gabriel in the nose before bouncing across the floor once more.

"Oww…" he whispered, rubbing his nose.

"Gabriel," Sherlock said. "Whatever you're doing. Stop."

With a heavy sigh, Gabriel sat down on the floor once more, his lip poked out in a monumental pout. "Hey, Dad! Let's go see Doctor Molly!"

"No," he replied.

"Why not?"

Sherlock sighed, turning on the stool to look down. "Because I'm working, Gabriel. And chances are, so is Doctor Molly. I know you're bored, that's why I tried to get you to bring something with you to do. As soon as I'm finished, we'll go. Until then, you're going to have to amuse yourself."

Gabriel made no reply, getting to his feet and walking around the lab, brushing his hands down all the tables and peering into the little glass jars that lined the shelves. "What's all this stuff?" he asked.

"Medical experiments," Sherlock replied.

"What kind of medical experiments?"

"All kinds. If someone is sick and they need to know why, they run tests on blood or tissue samples."

"Tissue?" he giggled. "Like the stuff you wipe your nose with?"

"No. It's another word for a piece of your body."

"Oh." There was a small, stainless steel refrigerator sitting on the counter. Grasping the handle, he pulled hard, opening it and peering inside. "Eeeww… there's blood in there. Dad… there's blood in this 'frigerator."

Sherlock sucked air through his teeth, trying to keep his temper in check. "Yes, Gabriel. There is. Please come over here and sit down."

Scuffing his shoes across the floor, he did as he was told and flopped down on the floor beside Sherlock's stool. He was quiet for a few minutes until he heard someone come through the heavy double doors. Hoping it was Doctor Molly or Greg or even Mr. Stamford, Gabriel jumped up excitedly. Unfortunately, it wasn't any of the people he'd been hoping for. The two people that entered the room were ones that Gabe had never seen before. The man was tall, but not as tall as his dad. He had pale skin and empty eyes and the blackest hair Gabe had ever seen. His mouth was drawn up in a sneer and Gabriel could tell that he didn't want to be here. Truth be told, this man looked as if he'd been hidden away in someone's closet for a couple of years. The lady with him was pretty, but the sour expression on her face ruined it. He much preferred ladies like Mary or Doctor Molly that always smiled and laughed. This lady looked like she'd never laughed before.

"Bring the kid to work day, Freak?" the lady remarked, passing by Gabriel without so much as a sideways glance. Gabriel's eyes narrowed. He didn't like the way this lady had addressed his dad.

Sherlock didn't reply, so Gabriel did it for him. "I'm Gabriel."

"Well aren't you just the cutest thing ever?" the lady said, instantly turning on the fake sweetness.

"Yep," Gabe replied. "I am."

She laughed. "You didn't tell us your kid was so cute, Freak. I just assumed he'd be more… you know… like you."

"Is there something you wanted, Sally?" Sherlock sighed.

"Lestrade said to bring you this." She held a file out to Sherlock. He didn't look at her as he took it.

"That lipstick shade doesn't really work for you, Sally," Sherlock mumbled.

"What are you talking about? I'm not wearing lipstick…"

"No, but Anderson is." The man immediately began scrubbing at his lip and Sherlock snorted. "Not there. Just under your ear. And of course you might want to check elsewhere, given that there's a smudge of fresh mud just under the edge of your belt, indicating that your pants have been on the ground sometime in the last few minutes." They wore a look of angry disbelief, speechless for a moment before turning on their heels and storming out the door, bowling over Molly as she tried to get in.

"Doctor Molly!" Gabriel shouted, running across the room to leap into her arms.

"Oh! My goodness, Gabriel! You're too big to jump on me like that!" she chuckled, hugging him tight and shifting him to her hip.

"I'm not that heavy!"

"Oh you are," she teased. "It's all your muscles." She hugged him again and peppered his cheeks with kisses until he was giggling uncontrollably. "Hello, Sherlock."

He waved and turned quickly, reaching for a petrie dish on the counter behind him.

"He's too busy," Gabriel grumbled. "I'm dying of boredom."

"I don't think you can die from that," Molly said. "But I was just going to lunch, so I thought I'd pop in and see if you were hungry."

"Yes, please! Dad, can I go with Doctor Molly to have lunch?"

"You're invited as well, Sherlock," Molly added.

"I'm not hungry. But please take that thing with you. He's driving me mad." He looked up and threw Gabe a wink.

"Oh… all right then," Molly said, letting Gabriel down and walking over to him. "Can I bring you something?"

"No thank you, Doctor Hooper." He glanced away from the petrie dish and stared up at Molly. "But… I'm glad you came up. I wanted to ask you…"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock's gaze shifted to Gabriel who stood behind her, watching this whole scene and tapping his foot. He was desperate to get out of the lab, even if it was to go to the café downstairs for a cold, soggy sandwich. "Uhm… Gabriel needs… shoes. As you mentioned before, he's growing much too fast and the shoes he has are too small. Do you maybe want to come with us to find new ones? John and Mary are going out tonight and…"

"Yes!" she answered a little too enthusiastically. "I mean, sure. That would be fine. I leave here at six."

"Good. Just take a cab over to Baker Street and we'll share from there." Molly blushed and nodded. "And thanks, Molly… I really don't know much about… kids' shoes…anyway, thank you for going with me."

She nodded and took Gabriel's hand, pulling him out the door. "We better hurry. It's chocolate pudding day."


	11. Not Exactly Harlequin, pt 1

**A/N: So this chapter was going to be SUPER long, so I decided to break it up into two smaller chapters. That's not to say that this part isn't twice as long as the last few... What can I say, I'm long winded. Anyway, thanks so much for all of your positive feedback and ideas! If only I had all of you in my office when I'm writing marketable stuff... :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel and his friend Kate.**

Molly was throwing her shoes off as she stumbled through the door of her tiny flat. Luckily the night doctor came in a bit early so she could leave. This was it. The night she'd been waiting for all these years. Amazing, for eight years she'd been waiting to go on a date with Sherlock and now that it was finally here, she was wishing for more time. The people on the tube probably thought she was on angel dust. She'd paced back and forth on the car, finally coming to rest in front of the doors, practically vibrating as she waited for them to open. Then dashing down the platform, running into vendors, an old lady with a bag full of groceries and a group of American tourists who then insisted she take their picture in front of the station.

She shot up the stairs and into her bathroom, pulling clothes off and tossing them aside. Her tabby cat, Tobias, named after Tobias Smollett, watched with fascination as she flitted about the room. He meowed angrily, knowing that it was time to eat, but Molly didn't pay him any mind whatsoever. She looked at the clock and considered the bathtub. "Can I take a bath in twenty minutes?" she asked the cat. He only washed a paw in reply. Taking that as a yes, she leaned over and opened both faucets, letting the tub fill with water. It probably wouldn't do to smell like formaldehyde and disinfectant on a date.

She rushed to her closet, throwing the doors open and rummaging. She flipped through every dress she owned, looking for the perfect item. They were going shopping for Gabriel so she didn't think something dressy was appropriate, but she didn't want to look like she'd been slubbing around the house all day. Not to mention it was chilly outside. "Hmm… what would Ilsa wear?" Ilsa was Molly's favorite movie character—the object of Humphrey Bogart's desire in Casablanca. She'd seen that movie the first time when she was twelve years old and ever since she'd wished she could be the smoldering seductress. "Uggh… all of these make me look like someone's mum." Then she remembered a box of clothes Mary had brought over last week. They were too big for her and she thought perhaps Molly could get some use out of them. Running through the lounge, she found that they were still sitting on the dining table. "Damnit… Tobias…" she cursed, throwing the first couple of shirts aside because of their light dusting of cat hair. Evidently he'd found a new favorite place to sleep. The table and chairs was soon a wasteland of discarded clothes until she found a pair of fashionably faded jeans and a creamy white blouse, very bohemian in style. "I think I can do something with this," she sighed. "Shit! The bath!"

She ran down the tiny corridor and got to the bath just in time to keep the water from running over the sides. Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped. She stood there in her underwear, examining her body. She stood up straight, pushing her breasts forward and using her arms to press them together. They weren't enormous, but they weren't non-existent. Her hips weren't what you'd call roomy but they were adequate. She suddenly realized that she always hid her body under meters of fabric. She knew she was self-conscious about the way she looked, but now, standing here in front of the mirror, she was wondering what all the fuss was about. Why shouldn't she be proud of how she looked? How much of her life had she wasted fretting about how she looked to other people? "New leaf tonight, Molly Hooper. It either works or it doesn't. After tonight… it's enough," she told herself. "Enough."

**OoOoOo**

"But I just got new shoes," Gabriel whined, scrunching his face as a brush was jerked roughly through his hair. "Why do I need more?" He hated shoes. If he had his way, he'd never wear them again. The strings were his nemesis.

"Because it was the first thing that came to mind, okay?" Sherlock answered. "Just give me a small break and take the shoes." He sighed. "Your hair is inexplicable."

Gabriel giggled. "So's yours."

"I know," he replied, dropping the brush and pushing his fingers through his own wet hair. He stared at himself in the mirror wondering what in Hell he was doing. What difference did it make what he was wearing or how his hair looked? It probably wouldn't make much difference either way, and besides, Molly Hooper had seen him a thousand times. Why should tonight be so different? Not to mention, it wasn't exactly a date. Not in the normal sense of the word. He was going to buy shoes for a child. And said child was coming along. So why should he be worried about whether his hair looked weird or if he was wearing the right outfit? He was Sherlock Fucking Holmes. He didn't care about all of that unimportant rubbish. Right?

"I think you should wear this," Gabriel said, interrupting the tempest of thoughts swirling around in his brain. The boy held up a pair of jeans that John had bought him years ago for Christmas. They still had the tags on them.

"Hmm…. Really? Jeans?"

"Why not?"

"I don't usually… it's not really me."

Gabriel stared at the garment and back at his father. "I think Doctor Molly will like them."

"No she won't. Why would she?"

"They'll look sexy." Gabriel giggled wildly, throwing the jeans across the end of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock chuckled. "Such a smart arse… we'll have to stop leaving you alone with John." Of course, it didn't stop him from pulling on the jeans.

"Ow… help… Dad…"

Sherlock turned to see that Gabriel was attempting to pull his jumper on without much success. Both arms were through one arm hole and his head was stuck in the neck hole. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud, but it was a struggle. Poor Gabe hadn't quite mastered the art of dressing himself. He did all right as long as it didn't have to go over his head or the buttons weren't too small. "Sorry, Gabe. I'm afraid your head is going to have to come off."

"Daaaadddd…" he whimpered.

Sherlock was disentangling the sleeves from Gabriel's arm when he heard the knock at the front door. "Okay, just pull it off all the way. I have to get the door." He left Gabriel and sprinted down the hall and down the stairs, forgetting that he was still shirtless. He pulled the door open and Molly Hooper was standing on his doorstep with her mouth hanging agape. "Hi Molly." He opened the door wider and waved her inside, the cold, late November air reminding him that he was half-naked. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson is still away. You weren't waiting long were you?"

"Uhm… no… no. I just got here. The cab… shit… I forgot to tell him to wait."

"It's okay. We'll get another. Come on up." As they arrived at the top of the stairs, Gabriel ran in from the bedroom, clutching his jumper in his hand. "We had a little wardrobe malfunction. It'll just be a minute."

Molly smiled. "It's okay."

Gabriel threw himself against Molly, hugging her around the waist and looking up at her. "Dad said he was going to have to take my head off."

"Oh I don't think that will be necessary. For one thing, they're impossible to get back on. I should know. I do pos—" She stopped herself and laughed nervously. "Here, let me help you with it." Sherlock watched as Molly helped Gabriel put the jumper on. He'd never seen her look so… put together. Her clothes fit, for one thing, hugging her frame and accentuating her femininity rather than hiding it like she normally did. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and though she wore makeup, it didn't appear that she had made a special effort. This Molly wasn't hiding in her clothes or trying to impress.

Sherlock left them in the lounge struggling with Gabriel's jumper. Now to find himself something to wear on top. He chose a crisp white shirt, tailored but still casual. With a last look in the mirror and a tousle of his hair, he was ready. He hoped. For what, he wasn't sure. This… whatever it was with Molly would be either a disaster or another turning point.

**OoOoOo**

"There you are," Molly said, tugging Gabriel's jumper down over his button-up. "You look very layered and fashionable."

"Thanks, Doctor Molly." He took her hand and led her over to the couch. "I want to show you the picture of you I drew."

"Oh? You drew a picture of me?"

"Yeah. I had to do something quiet today because telly was irritating Dad while he was thinking." He opened the small drawer on the coffee table and pulled out a big drawing pad. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. "Here it is." He held the pad up for Molly to take.

"Oh, Gabriel! This is a wonderful picture. Tell me everything about it." She sat down beside him and let him point out the people on the paper. The background of the picture was obviously Baker Street. There were lots of buildings pushed together. She recognized the black door that read '221B' and the red awning of the sandwich shop next door. "I tried to get everybody in the picture. There's me." He pointed to a short figure with lots of squiggles for hair and big eyes.

"Yes, I thought that must be you. I recognized your hair," Molly giggled. "Who is that holding your hand?"

"That's Mrs. Hudson. See, she's wearing her flowery dress."

"Oh I see. She has a big smile." The Mrs. Hudson figure had an exaggerated red smile that showed all of her teeth.

"Yeah, Mrs. Hudson smiles a lot. That's my favorite thing about her. The nuns at St. Christopher's never smiled." He shrugged. "I didn't used to smile much either." He pointed at another figure. "There's John. He's kissing Mary on the cheek."

"You made him shorter," Molly observed.

Gabriel shrugged. "Well John is short. At least, that's what my dad says."

"Where is he in the picture? Your dad?"

Gabriel pointed to the figure that was most definitely Sherlock. He was taller than anyone else on the page and was wearing his purple scarf. Gabriel had even given the Sherlock figure more detailed features with gray, almond-shaped eyes and a smirk that was so characteristic of him that Molly laughed in spite of herself. "He's the tallest. I tried to get his hair right, but the pencil wouldn't do what I wanted it to."

"You did beautifully." There was only one other person in Gabriel's picture, so she assumed it had to be herself. "Is this me?"

"Yeah. I tried to make you as pretty as you are for real. You and dad are holding hands."

Molly blushed and hugged Gabriel. "Thank you, Gabe. Too bad you aren't about thirty years older. I'd keep you all to myself." She examined the picture, noticing how well Gabe had captured all of them perfectly, even with his childish strokes. It was obvious that he had picked out his favorite thing about each one of them and made it the most prominent feature. The figure of Sherlock was the tallest not just because he was tall, but because Gabriel held him above all others. The thought gave Molly that fluttery feeling in her belly and she hugged Gabe tighter. "And I see you've written something at the bottom of the paper. What does it say?"

"It says 'My Family'. I have a book called that and I copied it from the cover. That book says that a family is the people you live with, but I don't think that's true."

"Oh?"

"No. I lived with the nuns at St. Christopher's, but they weren't my family. I think your family are people that you love who love you back."

Molly smiled. "I think you're absolutely right, Gabriel Holmes."

"I was going to put Greg on there too, but I couldn't fit him on the picture. Dad said I could draw him later and paste it on the end. And I might draw my mum up in the sky."

"Your mum?"

"Yeah. Dad gave me a picture of her. I wish I had got to meet her." Gabriel looked thoughtful. Molly could tell that he was so very curious about Irene Adler, but still wasn't sure how much he could ask Sherlock. As long as she lived, Molly would never forget the look on Sherlock's face when he identified her body in the morgue that Christmas. He looked so sad and confused. It broke her heart. "She was so pretty. Dad says she left me because she didn't think she could take care of me. Do you think that's true?"

"I'm sure she thought she was doing what was best for you. She just wanted to make sure you were safe."

"I guess. I see kids at the park with their mums sometimes. It might be nice to have a mum someday. This one kid asked me why I didn't have one and I said that she was dead and that I lived with my dad and my John. He thought that was weird."

"Your John?" Molly giggled at Gabe's strange title. "Why do you call him _your_ John?"

"Because he's not my dad. He's not my uncle. He's my John." Gabe shrugged then laughed. "I heard this kid's mum talking to another mum and she said that I had two daddies. So I just walked up to her and said, 'No I don't. I have one daddy and one John.' She turned red and walked away. I know she thought I was rude, but I thought it was rude that she was talking about me." Molly laughed again, gathering Gabriel into her arms and squeezing him tight. He was so much like Sherlock it was a little spooky. Extremely perceptive and completely unfiltered, but there was the sweetness of a child to temper it. She found herself wondering if Sherlock had ever had that or if he was just as abrasive when he was five.

"Are you both ready?" Sherlock appeared in the lounge and both turned when he spoke. Molly started to answer, but upon seeing Sherlock, all words died on her lips. He stood there looking like some sort of God in blue jeans. The outfit was so casual, but it couldn't hide the complicated geography of his form. His tailored white shirt was open at the neck, exposing the elegant slope and the hollow at the base. Though Sherlock was lean, she could see the gentle hills and valleys of a muscular torso beneath the fabric. His darkened curls were still damp from his shower and fell in a perfectly haphazard mess across his forehead, framing those bizarrely exotic eyes and bas relief cheekbones. As he walked toward them, she inhaled his scent, letting it fill her up. The leathery, spiced sweetness acted as an intoxicant and when Gabriel let her go to take his father's hand, Molly stumbled. "Molly. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she replied. "I think I stood up too fast."

Sherlock nodded. "Shall we go?"

**OoOoOo**

The shop was packed when they got there. It was one of those places that Sherlock hated. An enormous clothing shop that always seemed to be swarming with people. This one, in particular, because it specialized in clothes for children. The first week Gabriel lived at Baker Street, Sherlock had taken him to this store one afternoon and handed him over to the salesperson. She picked out an entire wardrobe for the child, including underwear, shoes and a new coat. All Sherlock had to do was hand over his card. This time, however, the pre-Christmas rush had already set in and there were people everywhere.

"Wow… it's crazy in here," Molly said.

"It's always like this," Sherlock said, holding tight to Gabriel's hand. The shops were so loud. John thought that he conveniently forgot to go for the shopping just to be a pain, but Sherlock literally shut down in situations like this. There were so many people, rushing about and all talking at the same time. There was a din of noise that just went on and on. Everything was too bright with too much color. He just couldn't handle it. And looking at Gabriel, he could see that this was evidently genetic. As they walked into the section with the kids' shoes, Gabe jerked his hand away from Sherlock's and covered his ears.

"All right, Gabe?" Molly asked.

"It's just too loud," he replied with a shrug.

"I know exactly what you mean," Molly replied. "Let's get it done quick so we can eat. I'm sooo hungry."

Gabriel nodded, "Me too." He took both their hands and let them lead him toward the wall of little boy shoes. It was a little less chaotic in this corner of the room. Enough that Gabriel broke away from the two adults and ran over to where the trainers were lined up against the wall. "I like these ones," Gabe said, holding up a pair of red canvas trainers.

Molly giggled. "Gabriel, those are much too big."

"Not to mention that they'll be useless in the winter," Sherlock said. "Don't you agree, Molly?"

"Absolutely. Your feet will get wet if you have to walk through the snow."

Gabriel sighed. "That's what Wellies are for."

"You don't have any of those either." Sherlock picked up a pair of clunky brown shoes. "You could be all stylish and outdoorsy."

"Don't make him wear those," Molly scolded. "Those are too much for a little boy." She leaned in and whispered to Sherlock. "Just let him have the red ones."

"They aren't practical," he said.

"Neither are…" She checked the pricetag. "70 pound shoes for a kid who will outgrow them in three months. I mean, if your feet are any indication, then he'll be able to wear them for a minute and a half."

Sherlock smirked. "Point taken." He followed Molly around the store, listening to her chatter about the different shoes.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel watched them walk away and he picked up the red shoes again, tucking them under his arm. He wandered around, stopping to look at the different items for sale. Soon he was beyond the borders of the shoe department and had worked his way over to where there were hundreds of fleece jumpers and hoodies all lined up on the racks. He could still hear his father's voice, so he continued to venture further into the back of the store.

As he was flipping through a rack of clothes, Gabriel noticed a small girl about his age staring at him with wide brown eyes. She waved to him and he waved back. She smiled and walked toward him, her red pigtails bouncing. "Hello," she said. "My name is Kate. What's yours?"

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. She sounded weird. The way she pronounced her words was very different from him. "Gabriel."

"Hi, Gabriel."

"Hey." He turned back to the clothes rack and pulled out a shirt with LONDON emblazoned across the chest in big block letters. "What do you think about this one?" he asked Kate.

"I like it."

Gabriel giggled. "Your voice sounds funny."

"So's yours."

"Do you live here?"

Kate nodded. "Yeah. My Daddy's an airline pilot and he just got a new job. So we live here now. I used to live in New York. In America."

"Oh."

"I think I've seen you before," Kate continued. "Do you play at the park with the big red slide?"

"Sometimes, I guess. It's near my house. The one with the big castle in the middle, right?"

"Yeah. It's near my house too. Where do you live?"

"I live at 221B Baker Street. I'm here with my dad and Molly. I'm supposed to be looking at shoes, but I got bored."

"Who is Molly?"

"She's my dad's friend."

"His girlfriend?" Kate asked, giggling, putting both hands over her mouth.

Gabriel shrugged. He knew Dr. Molly liked his dad but he wasn't sure if she was his girlfriend. He didn't think they had kissed each other and she didn't sleep over like Mary did with John sometimes. "I don't know. They like each other."

"She's not your mom?"

"No. My mum is dead. I never met her before."

"Oh," Kate replied. "My mom's just over there." She turned around and noticed that they were alone in the corner of the store. "Uh oh… where's my mom?" The little girl's eyes got bigger and her lip started to tremble. "She was over there."

Gabriel dropped the shirt and walked over to Kate. "What does she look like?"

"She's got brown hair and she wears glasses. She had my little brother in a stroller." Kate was starting to cry as she realized that her mom was out of her range of seeing and hearing. Gabe was taller than the girl, so he stood up on the tips of his toes to see if he could see her, but no such luck. "Do you see her?" she asked with a watery voice.

"No. I don't even see my dad anymore." Gabe didn't panic. John and Mary had made sure that he knew his address, all the mobile phone numbers and how to call a cab before they took him anywhere. He felt certain that he could get back to Baker Street if he was lost. This little girl clearly hadn't had that tutelage. "Don't worry, Kate. We'll find her. Why did you come to the store in the first place?"

"Uhm… I needed a dress to wear to church on Christmas."

"Then she's probably over on the side with the girls' stuff." Gabriel took her hand and started walking toward the other side of the store.

**OoOoOo**

"So Mary seems to be pretty taken with John," Molly said, idling looking through a rack of clothes. "She talks about him non-stop."

"So it would seem," Sherlock replied. "She's always at the flat. Look at this…" He held up a pair of shoes that had wheels on the bottom. "Is this for people that want to kill their children?"

Molly laughed. "You know kids. Always hurting themselves." She smiled, watching Sherlock with a clinical interest. He was clearly uncomfortable in this environment and she hoped it wasn't because of her. For God's sake, they'd known each other for years. There was no reason why they couldn't talk like friends. "You know, Sherlock… I wanted to ask you…"

"About?"

"Well… the other day, in the mortuary…"

Sherlock paused, looking around. "Where's Gabriel?"

Damnit! Did he even hear her? "What?"

"Gabriel. He's gone." Sherlock dropped the pair of shoes and began rushing around the section. He looked panic-stricken, and suddenly Molly was ashamed for her momentary annoyance. She followed after him, taking his arm to keep up. "Gabriel!" he called, prompting several of the patrons to turn around and stare. He started into the crowd of people milling around the sale racks and cash registers, pushing them aside and examining every little boy with dark hair within reach.

"Gabriel!" Molly cried out, edging through the tightly packed aisles. "Wait, Sherlock… maybe we should split up to look for him. He can't have gone far. We only looked away for a minute."

"Just long enough for a psycho to snatch him. How many dead children have you seen in the morgue? Kids that just wandered off at the supermarket? Or on the playground?"

Molly grabbed his hands and pulled him toward her, looking up into his eyes. "Just calm down. Gabriel's a smart kid. He wouldn't leave the shop. He's here somewhere, okay?" She smiled, actually feeling him relax. He nodded. "You stay here and I'll go to the desk and ask the clerk if she's seen him."

Before Molly could get away, a tall woman with a stroller walked up to them, leading two children behind her. "Pardon me, I think this belongs to you."

Molly gasped and rushed Gabriel, gathering him in her arms and kissing his cheeks. "Yes! Thank you so much!"

"I thought he must belong to you," the woman said, ignoring Molly and addressing Sherlock. "He looks just like you. He and my daughter Kate got lost. Your Gabriel helped her find us." Molly observed as the woman practically drooled on Sherlock's sleeve. Not that she could blame her. He struck quite an intriguing figure and from her accent Molly could tell she was American. American women were bound to love someone like Sherlock. "They told me that you all live just around the corner from us. We're on Downing."

"Fascinating," Sherlock replied, not really paying attention. He turned to Molly and reached for Gabriel, examining him thoroughly. "You can't wander around in the shop," he said, smoothing Gabe's hair. "You scared us to death."

"Well I had to help Kate find her mom. You would have wanted me to, Dad! And she gave me clues and I followed them to where her mom was!"

"He did a good job, Mr. Holmes," Kate said, her big brown eyes fixed on Gabriel. Clearly the little girl was just as smitten as the mom. She turned to her mother. "Hey Mom, Gabriel plays at the park with the castle too!"

"Oh really?" The mother smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes. "Then perhaps we'll see Gabriel and his father again soon."

Molly rolled her eyes and grabbed Sherlock's arm, jerking him toward the door.


	12. Not Exactly Harlequin, pt 2

**A/N: This chapter took a while and for that I do apologize. This chapter is unabashedly Sherlolly and probably pushes the envelope on the T rating. But trust me, I could have gone much farther. I do hope it's satisfying. Keep reading and reviewing—I'm loving hearing all your comments—it's food for my muse. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel.**

The kid was no paperweight. Sherlock was well aware of this fact as he hoisted Gabriel's sleeping form out of the cab and into his arms. "Could you possibly… the cab fare's in my pocket…" he said, turning so that Molly could grab the notes from the pocket of his coat.

"No… I've got it. You paid for dinner. Besides, I suppose I need him to take me home."

"Don't you want to come up for a bit? I'm sure John and Mary aren't here." As soon as he said this, he felt awkward. What would they talk about? All through dinner, they had mostly talked to and about Gabriel. At least until he'd passed out in the booth at Angelo's. Once they were upstairs, they'd be alone. They'd have to actually talk. To one another. And not about murders or corpses or cases. As John had told him, those topics aren't suitable for dates. Of course, having only observed John on one date that ended pretty badly, Sherlock wasn't sure that he was an expert either. He mentally kicked himself. _This is ridiculous, Sherlock. It's Molly Hooper. Doctor Molly. A person you've known for more than eight years. She's been to the flat dozens of times and has even fallen asleep on your couch. Oh, and there was that 'helped you fake your own death' thing. Stop being such a puss._ "And wine. I have this huge bottle of wine that Mycroft brought ages ago that I'll never drink on my own and John doesn't like it."

"Well… if you're sure…" Molly stammered.

"Of course I'm sure. Come on. Pay the cabbie."

Sherlock ambled toward the door, trying not to bounce Gabriel too much as he fumbled for his key. The little boy let out a sleepy sigh as Sherlock shifted him to his hip, but he did not wake. "Wow… he's really out of it," Molly observed. "He must have been really tired."

"Yes, he was up earlier than usual because he had to go with me to Bart's this morning and then he didn't have much time to nap in the afternoon. He'll be dead for a while." The cold made the door latch stick a little and Sherlock had to push it with his shoulder to get it open. Still Gabe didn't stir. Molly chuckled as the boy's limp body bounced, his head lolling back and forth as they climbed the stairs. He was completely unaware.

"Oh to be that trusting that you'd just sleep anywhere," she commented.

"You laugh, but he slept like this at Scotland Yard the other day." Sherlock pulled off his coat and scarf, throwing them carelessly over the chair. "You know where everything is, just make yourself at home while I get rid of this." She nodded as he sprinted up the back stairs and into Gabe's bedroom. Carefully, he set the little boy down in front of him as he sat on the edge of the bed. Gabe wobbled on his feet and Sherlock had to place his hands around the child's waist to steady him. "We have to get you into bed, Gabriel," Sherlock whispered, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his jumper.

Gabriel yawned. "But I'm not tired. I want to stay up with you and Doctor Molly…" he murmured, his eyes closing even as he said it.

"Oh yeah? Not at all?"

"Nuh uh…" Gabriel replied, letting his father pull his shirt off while simultaneously trying to kick off his shoes.

"There is a copious amount of evidence to the contrary. Rubbery limbs, slurred speech, half-closed eyes… you're either sleepy or you had too much to drink at Angelo's."

Sherlock's joke was lost on Gabriel as the child was almost asleep again. He only reacted to whine as his father inevitably chose the wrong pajamas again. In fact, he hastily grabbed a t-shirt—the one Gabriel wore on his first night at Baker Street—from the basket of unfolded clothes in the corner and began tugging it over Gabe's head."I want the skully ones…"

"What difference does it make? The skull ones are in the wardrobe."

"They're my favorite."

Sherlock shook his head and finished putting the shirt on him before standing up and pulling back the blankets. Gabriel was still whining when he climbed into bed and Sherlock was just ignoring him. It was always best just to ignore him when he was like this. He'd continue to whine and complain until he was unconscious. Genetics were a bitch. "Good night, Gabriel," he said, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

He mumbled a nearly unintelligible, "Love you, Dad." Sherlock smiled. This was a new addition to their ritual that had, at first, made him a little uneasy. As a child, affection was neither encouraged nor appreciated. He could recall exactly how many times that he'd told someone that he loved them and it was a number that could be enumerated on one hand. And none of those times could he be heard by the intended recipient.

"Love you, Gabriel," he said, allowing the tips of his fingers to linger on the child's cheek for a few seconds before turning to go downstairs.

"Dad… kiss Doctor Molly for me…"

Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway, nearly stumbling over the end of his shoe. He started to reply, but thought better of it.

**OoOoOo**

Molly sat down on the couch, staring around the familiar room. She couldn't believe how much warmer this place was now that Gabriel was here. She'd always found Sherlock and John's flat to be an interesting place, but you were never sure what would happen if you opened up the fridge. Before it had been so scattered and haphazard with nothing ever in its place. Now, it was always neat and all the body parts were stowed in a tiny refrigerator locked up in Sherlock's room. Gabriel's various drawings and writings were attached to the corkboard in the kitchen and there was a small wooden cupboard in the corner full of his toys and art supplies. Simply put, this place had become a home rather than a dwelling. Molly's chest felt tight and her stomach rolled over as she considered this. Ever since the first moment she'd ever seen Sherlock—when he was strung out, waifish and almost hostile in his defiance of everyone and everything—she'd loved him. He was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen and she could feel that there was more to him than the hardened, cold exoskeleton. But it had always been a very primal, lusty sort of love. Since his "death," she'd gained a deeper understanding of him and the deceiving nature of his indifference. It was endearing and Molly realized that even if nothing ever happened between them, that he would carry her wasted heart forever.

The silence was killing her. She thought about turning on the television, but it didn't seem the thing to do. Another remote sat on the coffee table with STEREO written in marker down the side. She picked it up and immediately music began to play. Something soft with a lot of lazy piano that she recognized from several years previous. She was careful not to turn it up too loud, knowing that Gabriel was asleep, or not far from it, upstairs. Wandering into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and saw the bottle of wine Sherlock had been talking about. Reading the label, it was something expensive, Italian and red. Three of her favorite qualities in wine.

"I see you found it." Molly turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

"I did," she replied, clenching her free hand into a tight fist to keep from reaching up and twirling the end of her hair around her fingertips. It was a nervous habit that she always seemed to be doing whenever he was around. God, he was beautiful. Tonight even moreso than usual. He was casual and he seemed to be seeing her for the first time. Really seeing her. Usually when Sherlock looked at her, she could tell that he was miles away, thinking about something else. But tonight, when he looked at her he was focused. His eyes were almost always that cold blue green but tonight they seemed darker. Almost warm. Tonight Sherlock seemed to be looking at her the way she always looked at him. "I might need some help with the cork."

He nodded and took the bottle from her. "There are wine glasses in the cupboard over the sink." She stood up on her tip toes, her fingers able to just brush the stem. Sherlock chuckled and sidled up behind her, reaching over her head to retrieve the glasses. "Need some help?"

"Yes," she giggled. "Thank you." He poured both of them generous glassfuls of wine and Molly gasped. "Mr. Holmes! Are you trying to get me tipsy so you can take advantage of me?"

"You've figured me out, Dr. Hooper. But I do hope you won't hold it against me." He smiled and held the glass out to her.

She took it and wandered over to the couch, flopping down and kicking her shoes off before curling them under herself. "So I've never asked, what happened to the wall?" She gestured toward the yellow smiley face accented with bullet holes.

"Just a… little… manic episode," he replied.

Molly smiled and nodded. "I do that sometimes. Get just absolutely crazy and do things I regret."

"Like dating psychopaths?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a swallow of his wine.

"In my defense, I didn't know he was a psychopath. Perhaps you should have let me in on that one."

"I tried…"

"You said he was gay!"

"Well… he's gay too. A gay psychopath. It's not all that unusual."

"Admit it, you missed it," Molly teased.

"I didn't miss it," he replied, taking another sip.

"You did. I could have been killed. He could have drowned me in the bath and skinned all the flesh off my bones to make a woman suit."

They paused momentarily before both burst into laughter. "Shh… we're going to wake Gabriel…" he hissed. They slipped into an easy conversation that covered everything from John and Mary's relationship to music. Molly found herself just listening to Sherlock talk, amazed by his new capacity to open up, laugh at himself and express some tiny shred of humility. She was learning so much about him, things that made him so human. And if it was possible, her heart ached for him even more than it had before. She found herself just staring into his face until finally he stopped speaking and looked away, obviously self-conscious. "I've been talking for nearly an hour and you've barely said a word. Sorry…"

"No, please… I was just listening to you. You're just so… different. I'm a little in awe of you."

"What do you mean?"

"You never used to talk this much. At least, not to me. And you never revealed anything about yourself." She grinned, finishing her glass of wine. "You've come a long way, Mr. Holmes."

"Maybe it's Gabriel. I guess I just realized that I didn't want to saddle him with that… cold indifference. I don't want him to be alone. You know, those two years that I was gone… I thought I'd feel differently. I could finally just retreat into my own head and not bother with all that extraneous noise. But once I got there, I just felt… empty. I couldn't think. I didn't even want to…"

"Love is the worst kind of drug, Sherlock," Molly whispered. "Once you have a little, you need more and more. Even when it hurts, you still need it. After my dad died, I thought I'd never want to love anyone ever again. It just hurt too much. If you don't have it, you can't lose it, right?"

"Exactly."

Molly smiled sadly, nodding. "It doesn't exactly work though, does it? Because invariably someone comes into your life and you're just… drawn to them. You find yourself loving them even when you shouldn't. Even when you don't want to." Molly stopped, unsure if she wanted to continue with this line of conversation. She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass of wine. "Even when other people tell you to give up on them. Hell, your own head telling you to. But you can't help it."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare. She could feel him watching her reaction, deciphering her body language. Did he know that she was talking about him? Her father had been the only person Molly had in the world and when he was gone, she had just assumed that she would never be able to love anyone again. That loneliness was a fatal disease to which she would eventually succumb. But then she met Sherlock and even though he was an infuriating git who always made her feel small and silly, with one glance he had planted a tiny seed of hope in Molly Hooper's desolate heart.

"I am sorry, Molly."

"For what?"

"That night. That last night before… when you said that you didn't count. I'm so sorry, Molly. I never meant to let you think you weren't important to me. I've never really been on the receiving end of love or friendship, but I know plenty about rejection. I learned a long time ago that it's just easier to never let anyone close. It's a hard habit to break and I do apologize."

"Wow…" Molly said. "That makes three times you've apologized to me. Do I win some kind of award now?"

Sherlock smiled. "Just my thanks."

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me. Even when I deserved it." Sliding closer to her, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Just a gentle brushing of his lips against the crest of her cheekbone, but he lingered. She turned her head and their noses brushed against one another, their mouths just barely touching. There was a moment, brief but excruciating, when Molly was sure that he would pull away, realizing that it had all been a gigantic mistake brought on by too much wine. But he didn't, capturing her mouth in a kiss she could feel all the way down to her toes. Her lips parted slightly and every breath she took was his as they moved slowly together. One arm around her waist pulled her body closer to his as he took her wineglass from her, setting it aside. "Is this ok?" he asked.

Molly found she couldn't speak, so instead she merely nodded and arched her neck, reaching for another kiss. He pulled her arm around his neck, holding it there as he kissed her again. This time there was an urgency and confidence that had not been there before. When he closed his mouth over hers, he stole her breath. She could taste the bittersweet wine on his lips and she feathered her tongue lightly across the inside of his lip, enjoying the exotic flavor as it mixed with her own. He drew her tongue into his mouth, teasing her to play along. The single most erotic sensation Molly had felt to date. "You're uhm…very good at that," Molly stammered. "Did you read that in a book or something?"

Sherlock smirked. "No… I practiced. But shhh… don't tell Mary. She'd be pissed off."

Molly giggled, picturing Sherlock tackling John and kissing him soundly. "I promise. Mum's the word." This time she kissed him, anxious to feel the closeness of his body again. He was quick to oblige and soon Molly found herself reclining beneath him. His fingertips brushed her hair away from her face and his lips found her cheek, kissing down the sharp line of her jaw to the hollow just under her ear. He was so close that she could hear a low purring as he took the fleshy bit of her earlobe between his teeth, nibbling gently. She wasn't sure if it was him or her because he definitely made her want to purr. His hand slid over her shoulder and down her arm, drawing a shiver. Just that simple touch and she wanted more. Wanted him to touch her everywhere. A gentle tug of the wide collar on her peasant blouse exposed a shoulder and immediately Sherlock was tracing the soft curve with a burning line of kisses that ended at her collarbone. Molly pulled her leg over his hip, involuntarily arching her body against his and relishing the sensation of his center pressing against her. Could it be possible that he wanted her? Molly Hooper? That she was the cause of the deep growling in his throat, the sharp intake of breath and that masculine hardness that was quickly becoming obvious? Did his blood race and boil like hers? Did his mouth water for her kiss?

"Dr. Hooper…" he rasped against her ear. "Do you want to stay? Because if you don't… we'd better call you a cab. Now." His voice was barely a whisper, but its ferocity was almost frightening.

"Mr. Holmes… what kind of girl do you think I am?" she teased. He smiled and started to reply, when a croaky voice came from behind them.

"Dad… I don't feel well…"


	13. The Plague

Sherlock backed off of Molly, trying to hide the pained growl. "Just a second, Gabe," he rasped, not wanting to let on how affected he was by the encounter. Molly sat up, straightening her shirt, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. Her lips were swollen and pink from his kisses and her breathing still came in sharp gasps. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the haze of arousal and seeing her like that, still so warm and eager was not helping.

Gabriel stumbled down the tiny corridor and into the living room. He was rubbing his eyes as he negotiated around the coffee table, going to Sherlock, seeming blissfully unaware that he'd interrupted the beginning stages of foreplay. "Dad," Gabriel whined.

Sherlock embraced the little boy against his side. "What's the matter?"

"My head hurts." As if to emphasize the point, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "My tummy too."

"All right then. We can fix that." He brushed Gabriel's stray curls away from his face, noticing that they were soaked with sweat. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Gabriel's forehead, feeling the feverish heat that emanated from his skin. "Your temperature is elevated," he observed. "Come on, let's get you some paracetamol and tuck you back into bed." He mouthed _'just a minute_' over Gabriel's head as he steered him toward the kitchen. Molly smiled and nodded, sinking back into the cushions.

Sherlock fumbled around in the cupboard over the refrigerator until he found the small bottle of liquid paracetamol and a measuring spoon that John had brought home in Gabriel's first week at Baker Street. Being a doctor, he had insisted that they have a complete first aid kit and medicine cabinet fully equipped with child-friendly medicines. He read the directions quickly, anxious to get this little hiccup dealt with so that he could get back to Molly. He poured the thick, purple liquid into the measuring spoon and handed it to Gabriel. He looked at it blankly and then back to Sherlock. "Can I have something to drink?"

"Oh. Yes… sorry…" Sherlock stammered, turning to the fridge and finding one of those juice boxes with the straw in the door. He pulled the tiny plastic straw off the back and tried stabbing it into the tiny hole at the top. Apparently the little foil covering was made of titanium and after several attempts, he only succeeded in breaking the straw. He cursed loudly in French before going to the counter and using a knife to open the top of the pouch. He squeezed the contents into a glass and handed it to Gabriel. "Drink up," he said.

"I don't like this stuff, Dad," Gabriel croaked pitifully. "It tastes terrible."

"Medicine is supposed to taste terrible. Otherwise they'd call it candy." Gabriel wrinkled his nose at Sherlock. "Come on, just swallow it quick and chase it with that apple juice syrup."

"Daaadd…"

"Well what do you want me to do, Gabriel? You said you felt bad and I'm giving you something to make it better. If you don't take the medicine, you won't feel better." Sherlock was trying not to sound annoyed, but it was a struggle. Gabriel took a deep breath and turned up the measuring spoon, swallowing the contents with a look of utter disgust. He drank the juice fast, swirling it around in his puffed cheeks before swallowing, trying desperately to wash the taste of the medicine out of his mouth. "There. That wasn't so bad was it?"

Gabriel glared.

"All right, let's get you back into bed." He picked the little boy up and he immediately nestled against Sherlock's shoulder. He waved pitifully at Molly as they passed by on their way to the stairs.

"Good night, Gabriel," she said. "I hope you feel better."

Sherlock ascended the stairs, carrying Gabriel who had begun to whimper. "My head hurts so bad, Daddy." He never used this term unless he was terrified or hurting.

"I know, Gabe. Hopefully the medicine will help soon." He set the boy down in his bed and rearranged the covers around him again. "Try to sleep."

"Can't you stay with me?" Gabriel whined. "Until I go to sleep?"

"What about Dr. Molly? I can't just leave her on her own down there." He knelt down by Gabriel's bed and brushed his fingers through the boy's hair affectionately. "Lie down and close your eyes. You'll be asleep in no time."

Gabriel's chin trembled and he stared at Sherlock. "Dad… I don't feel so good."

Sherlock examined his child's face. Wide, watering eyes, a tense jaw… He remembered the signs well. Detox was an illness that one would be hard pressed to forget. "Gabe, do you feel like you're going to be…" Before he could get the words out, Gabriel was violently ill all over his bed. "…sick." As soon as it was over, Gabriel burst into loud, wailing tears. He sat there, helpless and sobbing, not wanting to move. On the inside, Sherlock felt the same. He saw the promise of incredible sex spiraling down the drain. "It's all right, Gabriel," he said, pulling the soiled duvet down the bed carefully so as not to get it everywhere. "Just calm down."

"I'm… sss…sorry…" he said in a shaky voice.

"For what? It isn't your fault," Sherlock said as he pulled the oversized shirt over the child's head and tossed it aside.

"I didn't… I didn't mean…" His words were coming out in heavy gasps. "…to mess up… my bed…"

"Stop, Gabriel…" Sherlock said, his voice gentle but firm. "It isn't your fault. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Gabriel nodded weakly. He felt sorry for the kid. Gabriel's face was unnaturally pale with a bloom of heat on both cheeks. He went to the wardrobe, pulling the skull pajamas out of the drawer. "You know, you didn't have to get sick just to wear your skull pajamas."

"Dad…"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm going to be sick again." Sherlock dropped the clothes on the bed and quickly led Gabriel across the hall to the bath. They might have made it in time if it hadn't been for the distraction of the door downstairs slamming shut as John and Mary returned from their date. As it was, Gabriel barely made it to the door of the bathroom before he threw up again. Sherlock handled crime scenes and dead bodies in varying states of decomposition with the clinical eye of a scientist. He never flinched. But seeing his child erupting an evening's worth of Italian food was almost more than he could stand. Gabriel started to cry again, but Sherlock urged him forward. "It's okay, Gabe. Just keep going." He managed to get the child into the bathroom and a towel over the mess before John made it to the top of the stairs.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"Gabriel's sick," Sherlock replied, sitting on the edge of the tub, rubbing Gabriel's back as he leaned over the toilet again.

"Wow… yes he is," John commented. "Something he ate?"

"No idea. He had a headache and fever. I gave him a dose of paracetamol and he immediately started vomiting."

"Probably something viral. I'll get my bag and check his temperature and give him something to settle his stomach a bit. Hey, did you know Molly…"

"Shit… yes… poor thing, I just left her down there." Sherlock held his head, thinking about the disaster that the evening had become. And it had been so lovely before…

"Look, I'll stay here with Gabriel if you'll take all the ruined bedding and this towel and throw it in to wash."

"What about Mary?"

"She knows the way up here."

Sherlock smirked and began to gather the affected items, balling them up in Gabriel's duvet to carry downstairs and trying to ignore the sour, offensive odor emanating from the sheets. He couldn't wait to get back to Molly and the strawberry scent of her hair. Once he'd thrown the linens into the machine and checked himself for any sign of kid-sick, he rushed back into the living room where Molly and Mary were giggling on the couch.

"Everything okay?" Molly asked.

"Gabriel's really sick. I'm so sorry, Molly…"

"No need. It happens." She gazed at Sherlock, her eyes saying that she was extremely sorry that they had been interrupted.

"I'd love it…" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Mary was staring at him, taking in every word and looking extremely amused. "…if you'd stay until I get him situated, but if you need to go…I know it's late."

"I really should be going. You might be up all night with Gabe and well… he needs you tonight." Molly smiled sadly.

"Well at least let me walk you down. I don't want you to stand on the street waiting for a cab on your own."

Molly nodded. "All right then." Sherlock could tell that she was feeling awkward about their rather intimate encounter and the fact that Mary was now watching their every movement. He supposed he should feel a bit awkward, but he didn't. He wasn't sure if it was his complete lack of regard for social graces, his annoyance at being interrupted or his enthusiasm for this… whatever it was with Molly, but he wasn't the least bit intimidated by Mary's watchful eye or John's amused smiles.

He offered Molly his arm and led her down the stairs. "I'm really sorry, Molly. I kind of botched up the evening didn't I?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I had a really nice time."

Sherlock smiled. Not his usual fake smile that he used when he was trying to get something from someone, but a genuine smile that lit up his whole face. "I did too. Despite your constant attempts to seduce me."

"Me? No… I didn't…" she stammered.

"I'm just teasing you," he scolded, kissing her cheek. She blushed prettily and they stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was cold and Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps we can try this again… if you aren't too busy."

She nodded. "I'd like that." Cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand, he pulled her in to kiss her properly.

"Good. Text me the details," he said, pulling away just as a cab stopped. He walked her over to the cab, opening the door and shielding her from the frigid breeze. "If Gabe's better, I'll come by the lab tomorrow."

Molly nodded again. "Sherlock…"

"Yes?"

"What… what's changed between us?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe I realize now how spectacularly ignorant I've been."

**OoOoOo**

John stood at the window in Gabriel's room, staring down at the couple on the street. "What in the Hell is going on with those two?" he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Mary giggled, helping Gabriel pull his pajama shirt on. "I think it's adorable. Molly has been in love with that man for years. I'm just relieved he finally sees what a great girl she is. I had started to worry that she was going to make herself a spinster waiting for that old sod."

"Where am I going to sleep?" Gabriel whimpered. He looked positively haggard after his ordeal. He'd thrown up twice more since his father went down to walk Doctor Molly out, the last time nothing had come up but he lay on the floor of the bath retching and crying. It was pitiful and by the time it was done, he looked like one of those people in Sherlock's homeless network.

"I'm sure your dad will let you sleep in his bed," John said, sitting down beside Gabe. "Especially now since his bed will seem so cold and empty."

Mary laughed. "Don't tease him."

"Is that medicine making you feel any better, Gabriel?" John asked. He'd given him a dose of medicine that would settle his stomach, help his head and bring his fever down. Hopefully he'd be able to keep it down this time.

"My head still hurts a little bit," he said, letting Mary embrace him and laying his head on her shoulder. "I'm tired now. Where's my dad?"

"He's putting Molly in a cab right now," John said. "He should be back up in just a second."

"I like Doctor Molly," Gabriel sighed. "She's nice."

Sherlock appeared in the doorway and Gabriel pulled away from Mary to go to him. He picked the little boy up and cradled him against his chest. Gabe immediately put his thumb in his mouth, but Sherlock didn't stop him. If it would soothe him, what difference did it make? "All right, Gabe?"

"No," he whimpered. "I feel like shit, dad." All of the adults burst into laughter as he said this, completely unaware that he'd said anything off color.

"Gabriel," Sherlock whispered. "I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment, but not the word choice."

"You say it all the time," he grumbled.

"And it's not appropriate then either. But I don't have a dad to tell me not to."

Gabriel shrugged. "Maybe John can tell you not to."

"There's the pot calling the kettle black," Mary mumbled, receiving a playful swat on the ass for her trouble. "Well it's true. Both of you have mouths like sailors."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I think we'd better go to bed before this becomes too violent and graphic for us."

**OoOoOo**

It had been four days since their date and Molly hadn't heard a word from Sherlock. He'd promised to come into the lab the next day, but he never showed. She supposed he'd just decided that the whole thing had been a mistake. But he should at least have the common courtesy to call and tell her. Or at least text. Of course, when talking about Sherlock Holmes, common courtesy wasn't really part of his vocabulary. No, he'd intended to use her for a one night stand, sate his primal need for sex and then just throw her aside. It had happened to her before and she knew the signs. As the days passed, her mood had darkened further until she was either snarling at everyone or just staring off into space. Damn him!

No. She was not going to let this go on. She was going to give him a piece of her mind! Tell him that she might not be most beautiful or cleverest girl in the world, but she deserved better! She is a well-respected doctor, damnit! Not some little schoolgirl that could be used as a plaything! As she stormed out of the office and down the hall, Molly pulled her mobile out of her pocket so vigorously that she nearly threw it. Her hands shook as she ticked through her contacts looking for him. "This is it! Once and for all!"

The phone rang several times and for a moment she was afraid he wouldn't pick it up. She didn't want to have to tell him off in a voicemail. It wouldn't be nearly so satisfying. Maybe she should just go to the flat and confront him head on. Finally, he picked up.

"Hello?" Gabriel. Why was Gabriel answering Sherlock's mobile?

"Uhm… yeah… Gabriel?"

"Yep."

She almost laughed, but no… the cuteness of his kid wasn't going to quell her anger. "This is Doctor Molly. Can I speak to your dad, please?"

"Uhm…" He was hesitating. Did the five-year old know something she didn't? Oh God, did Irene Adler come back from the dead to ruin her life one more time? "Well, Doctor Molly…"

"I don't care if he's busy, Gabriel. You just let me talk to him. It will only take a second."

"Ok… hold on for a second." She heard Gabriel put the phone down. In the background she could hear muffled male voices and then a distinctly feminine voice. Molly's face flushed red with white-hot anger. He hadn't called her because he was having some kind of hedonistic fuck fest with an undead sex worker!

"Sherlock Holmes…" It was indeed his voice. That gravelly baritone growl that was distinctly him. Molly felt her center throb just a little and she mentally kicked herself. But there was something else. He sounded almost… weak.

"Look, Sherlock… if you didn't want to see me again, you could have at least sent a text! I mean, avoiding me like the plague is just childish and rude! I thought we had something! I thought you had finally started seeing me for who I am! I thought-"

"Molly? Oh… God… I'm so sorry, Molly. I'm sick."

"Oh yeah, right. Peddle that line somewhere else, MISTER Holmes…"

"No really… Molly… I promise. Whatever Gabe had was evidently contagious and…" Suddenly there was a clatter of noise as Sherlock dropped the phone.

There was retching.


	14. The Night Visitor

**A/N: Sorry this took so long to post. It's been a busy Thanksgiving weekend. But this chapter is a little bit longish to try and make up for it. I hope it's satisfying. Thanks so much for all of your reviews, follows and favorites! I really look forward to hearing what you think! Also, I have a Star Trek fic in the works, so keep on the lookout for that! Anyway, without further ado...**

**oOoOo**

"You have to push the needle and thread through the puffy part," Mary instructed. She was trying to show Gabriel how to string popcorn without much success. "Be gentle. That's why you keep crumbling it up. Don't hold the kernel so tightly." Gabriel squinted, examining the needle closely as he pushed it through.

"I did it!" he exclaimed, holding up his needle to show Mary.

"Great! Now you just push it down to the knot at the end of the string."

Gabriel scanned the length of string and sighed. Carefully he began sliding the popcorn kernel down the long string. He was almost there when the puffed bit disintegrated and fell on the floor. Gabriel gave a frustrated growl. "Mary! I can't do this!"

Mary looked up from her string to see Gabriel huffing in Sherlock's armchair. She almost laughed at the similarity of his dark expression. Just like his father, if he didn't immediately master something, he couldn't be bothered. His resolute expression said that the art of stringing popcorn was now dead to him. "Aww… sure you can, Gabe. It just takes practice. Look here, why don't I do the popcorn strings and you can try something else?" She patted the seat beside her. He shrugged and went to her.

Very slowly, Christmas was starting to appear at Baker Street, much to the chagrin of Sherlock who didn't understand why the entire flat had to be adorned with glitter and evergreen boughs. Everyone had managed to get over their sickness, but a week in bed had set the case load back considerably. Mary had become a near permanent fixture in the flat as Sherlock and John worked non-stop. For the last week, they would rise before Gabriel was out of bed and not return until after dark. And when he was home, Sherlock was peevish and short with everyone, including Gabriel. Earlier that morning he'd snapped at the child for daring to turn the television on and Mary for scraping her spoon on the bowl as she ate.

Gabriel had also started emulating his father's prickly disposition as the Christmas noose began to tighten. What many people don't realize is that while Christmas is a magical time for most children, it was also the most stressful time of their whole year. The constant worry about what they want for Christmas, the almost paranoid consciousness of Santa's watchful eye, the brimming excitement that grew exponentially the closer it got to December 25th—it all conspired to make a heavy stew of stress that would bubble in little bellies. This was Gabriel's first Christmas that he was even aware of such things, but this year he was **extremely** aware. The kids in the park had debated their Christmas lists and their plans for catching Father Christmas. His friend Kate had told him all about their Christmas play at school and had even invited him to come and see it. All the shops were alight with ornaments and lights and chubby old guys in red suits. You couldn't watch telly without being bombarded with loud commercials advertising sales or Christmas shows. And then there was the snow. Two nights previous, the snow had begun to fall and had been falling off and on over the course of the last forty-eight hours. Simply put, Gabriel was in Christmas overdrive and the over-stimulation had given him a temporary case of schizophrenia. One minute he was laughing, the next he was in the throes of a full on tantrum.

"Let's just make a paper chain. That will look pretty on the tree," Mary suggested, pulling out Gabriel's pad of colored paper. "Cut strips of red and green and link them together." She cut a few pieces and showed him what to do. "And when you're done you have this pretty chain that you can drape over the branches of the tree."

Gabriel snorted. "We don't have a Christmas tree."

"But we will have."

"No we won't," he brooded. "We can't get one without Dad and John and they aren't ever here."

"They'll slow down soon, Gabe. I know you miss them." Mary reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately. "But for now, we can have fun on our own."

"I guess," he sighed and began cutting strips of paper for the garland. Mary turned on the stereo and searched through Sherlock's iPod that had been left in the dock. She set it to 'random,' bracing herself for whatever might come through the speakers. Luckily it was a soothing violin and piano concerto that sounded both strange and familiar. It served its purpose and the two of them worked silently at their projects. Mary was good at calming the little attacks of anxiety that sometimes plagued the little boy. What John had dubbed "a little touch of Aspberger's." Mostly because very little upset her. "Do you think my dad and John will be home to eat dinner?"

"I'm not sure. I got a text from John saying that it would be late, but he didn't say how late."

"What if they don't get home by the time I have to go to bed? What about when you go home? I don't like sleeping at Mrs. Hudson's flat."

Mary chuckled. "Why don't you like Mrs. Hudson's flat?"

"Well, I like being at Mrs. Hudson's flat, but her guest room is creepy. She has all these pictures on the wall and it's like they're staring at me." He shuddered and squeezed glue on to the end of a paper strip.

She smiled. "Well I'll stay with you until they get back."

"Even if I have to go to bed?"

"Even then."

An hour later, Gabriel had made a paper chain to rival Jacob Marley's and Mary had enough popcorn strung to go around two or three Christmas trees. They decided that the paper garland would look festive around the archway that led down the hall toward the back stairs and Sherlock's bedroom. Mary had just pulled a kitchen chair over to tack the chain to the wall when they heard a knock at the door. "I'll get it!" Gabriel called.

"Oh no you won't," Mary answered, pulling him back by his shirt collar. "You have no idea who that might be. Never open the door to a stranger. Especially this door." She pushed him behind her as she went down the stairs and peered through the peephole.

Mrs. Hudson appeared. "Who can that be at this hour? The boys wouldn't knock."

"Oh! It's Molly," Mary exclaimed, opening the door. "Heyya!" she greeted, hugging Molly. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought some lab reports for Sherlock. He had to leave before they were done this afternoon, so I promised I'd drop them off."

"Hi, Doctor Molly!" Gabriel raced down the stairs and leapt into Molly's arms.

"Oof! Looks like you've recovered from your sickness," she said, kissing his forehead.

"Yep! I feel much better now." He looked up at Mary. "Can Molly and Mrs. Hudson come up and eat with us?"

"You mean you're finally ready to eat?" she laughed.

"Yes!" he exclaimed and turned back to Molly. "Don't you want to stay with us? We have spaghetti stuff."

"Uhm… well… if it's okay with Mary."

"Of course! We were just complaining that we were lonely. Mrs. Hudson, what about you?"

"Oh I can't tonight," Mrs. Hudson said. "Mr. Quinn down the street has asked me to dinner."

Gabriel giggled. "Do you have a date, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well aren't you Mr. Noseypants?" Mrs. Hudson teased, pinching his cheek. "But I'll come up for tea tomorrow if you like."

"Yes, please!" he answered excitedly, waving as Molly carried him up the stairs.

"Sheesh, Gabriel," Molly said, setting him on the floor as they reached the flat. "You must stop growing."

"I can't!" he said.

"It's all in his feet," Mary teased. "In another couple of months he'll be able to waterski."

**OoOoOo**

Mary poured Molly another glass of wine. After dinner, Gabriel had retired to the couch to watch yet another rerun of Doctor Who as the girls lingered over the dregs of the wine bottle. "Dinner was delicious, Mary. Thanks for inviting me to stay."

"Well you know you don't have to wait for an invitation," Mary replied. She stared at Molly, a question burning on her lips. "So… I was curious. What's going on between you and Sherlock?"

Molly immediately blushed a deep crimson and took a long pull of her wine. "What do you mean?"

"Oh I think you know very well what I mean," Mary giggled. "The other night when Gabriel was sick—when John and I came in it was late… very late. You were sitting on the couch with a wine glass in your hand and messed up hair. Not to mention that John saw the two of you lingering on the street."

Molly smiled, a guilty but wide smile that told Mary all she needed to know. "Well… we sort of… went out…"

"And?"

"And we had a little too much wine and it was a little too late…and well, he kissed me." Molly closed her eyes and chewed her lower lip, obviously consumed by the memory of the aforementioned kiss. "God, did he kiss me…even better than the time in the morgue…"

"The time in the morgue?!" Mary's mouth hung agape. "What time in the morgue?"

"Well… a few days before the date… we were alone in the morgue and well… it just sort of happened." She peered over her shoulder to see if Gabriel was paying attention. Thankfully, he was so engrossed in the telly that he hadn't heard a word of their conversation. "But we haven't really spoken since the night Gabriel got so ill. I mean, he's come to the lab a few times, but only just in passing and John was always with him. So…"

Mary jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around her friend. "Oh I'm so happy for you, Molly!"

Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Why? There's nothing official. I'm not even sure where we stand."

"Well it seems to me that Mr. Holmes has finally come to his senses!"

"Or he's just experimenting on me," Molly replied darkly. "I wouldn't put it past him." Deep down, this was Molly's greatest fear and the source of all of her apprehension. Sherlock was always manipulating her to get what he wanted. In the past she never knew if he was being nice to her because he liked her or because he wanted her to do him a favor. What if this whole thing was merely an attempt to solve some puzzle he had cooking in his head?

Mary arched her eyebrow knowingly. "You two have been dinner conversation for me and John for a couple of weeks now. He knows Sherlock better than anyone and according to him… Sherlock's been acting very strangely. Hell, even I've seen how he looks at you."

"How does he look at me?"

"Like he's been wandering the desert with no food and you're a big plate of bacon." Before Molly could respond, Mary's mobile went off with an obnoxiously loud tone. It nearly vibrated off the table before she took it. "Hello?" She wandered off into the hall for a little privacy.

Molly rose from the table and began clearing up the dishes. She smirked, looking down at Gabriel's plate, most of the pasta left uneaten. "Gabe, are you finished eating?" she called.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? It looks like you hardly ate anything."

"I'm sure," he said.

"Just like Sherlock," she mumbled, scraping the remnants of Gabriel's dinner into the bin. Then she began filling the sink with hot water to wash up the dinner dishes. She wasn't sure why, but she felt the need to do something with her hands. All that talk of Sherlock and memories of their kiss—she just felt so nervous that she needed to get some of the energy out.

"Damnit," Mary growled, re-entering the kitchen and slamming her phone down.

"What's going on?" Molly asked.

"My brother borrowed my car and promptly hit an old lady whose car was stopped in a carpark across town." She sighed. "Both cars are banged up royally and the police need me to bring the insurance information."

"Oh no!"

"And of course, John's not answering his phone…" she paused. "Molly, do you think that maybe you could stay with Gabriel? I hate to ask, but I don't know when they'll be back and Mrs. Hudson is out and…"

"Of course! Go on and do what you have to do. Gabriel and me will be just fine."

Upon hearing his name, Gabriel sat up. "What's going on?" he asked, walking into the kitchen.

"I have to go see about my brother," Mary explained. "But Molly's going to stay here with you until your dad and John get back."

"Is that okay, Gabe?" Molly asked, kneeling down to his level.

"I guess so," Gabriel said, allowing Mary to embrace him. "But when will Dad be home?"

"Soon, I'm sure," Mary replied, kissing his cheek.

**OoOoOo**

It was nearing midnight and both Molly and Gabriel were dozing on the couch. There had been no sign of Team Baker Street save for a single text responding to Molly's.

_OK. ~SH_

They had drawn pictures, hung Christmas lights around the mantle, watched more Doctor Who and even played a game of Cluedo, but now it was becoming painfully obvious that Gabriel would have to go to bed. Molly had been dreading this part of the evening because the later it got, the more agitated the child was becoming. He hadn't slept in the house without Sherlock since his arrival at Baker Street. He'd napped at Mrs. Hudson's but that was during the day. Now it was dark and as everyone knows, situations are always more foreboding in the dark. But there was nothing to be done for it. The poor thing was dead on his feet.

"All right, Gabriel. We'd better get you into bed."

Gabriel's mouth dropped open. "Noooo… Molly, I'm not ready to go to bed!"

"Oh really?" she giggled. "I had to wake you up to tell you to go to bed. Your eyes are all red and you've been yawning steady since 9. Come on, it will be all right. And when you wake up, your dad will be here."

"No! I don't want to go to bed without my dad!" His chin was already trembling and Molly was dreading those big fat tears that were already gathering in the corners of his eyes. She knew she wouldn't be able to resist them. She thought fast. It was obvious she was going to have to bribe him in some way.

"I tell you what, run up to your room and put on your pajamas. Get your favorite book and we'll climb up in your father's bed. When I was a little girl, if I missed my dad, I would just hug his pillow or wear one of his old shirts and that would make me feel better. What do you say? Care to try it?"

Gabriel seemed to think this over. "Okay," he said finally. But he still looked skeptical. Molly marched him up the stairs and into his room. Fortunately, he was able to retrieve his skully pajamas, so that drama was avoided. She giggled as she helped him into the shirt, having to pull it down over his head and only getting it stuck on his nose once. "My head's too big," he whined.

"It's so you can get all those brains in there," Molly chuckled. "Besides, you're absolutely perfect, Gabriel Holmes." She kissed his nose and cheeks until he was giggling with her. Then he chose his fairy tale book from the shelf by his bed and bounded down the stairs and corridor and into Sherlock's bedroom. He gave a battlecry and launched himself into the middle of the enormous bed.

Molly blushed, looking around the room. She had fantasized about what Sherlock's bedroom would look like. This seemed to be a bit different than what she expected. It was immaculately clean for one thing, with everything in its place. The tiny, stainless steel refrigerator that held all of his experiments was in one corner adorned with a lamp and a very artistic looking teapot. No one would ever suspect that there were probably body parts floating in formaldehyde inside. His closet was ordered, standing slightly ajar so that she could see his many suits, shirts and pants, arranged by color. There was also a chest of drawers with a small television mounted to the wall over top. There was no artwork to speak of, save for a poster of the periodic table on the wall by the door. And then, there was his bed. With Gabriel sitting in the center, it looked gigantic. It had been made up with a deep purple duvet and several pillows were tossed across it. Molly got lost for a moment in a fantasy of lying back into that bed with him. The duvet rising up around them and the comforting warmth and weight of his body lying atop hers.

"Read," Gabriel commanded, handing her the book before diving under the covers.

"Oh… yes. Sorry," Molly stammered. She took the book and kicked her shoes off, cautiously sitting down beside him on the bed. It was soft and comfortable and she sank into it. Gabriel pulled the covers around himself and Molly, then snuggled against her side.

He pointed out the dragon story. "This one's my favorite. Can we read that one?"

"Uhm… sure…do you think your dad will mind me being in his bed with you, Gabe?"

He shrugged. "Probably not."

"That's so comforting," she thought, turning her thoughts to the story of the dragon maiden.

**OoOoOo**

It was after one in the morning when they finally darkened the door of 221 B. Sherlock was exhausted, dragging himself through the door with John lagging behind. The doctor was literally asleep on his feet. He even had to be awakened to get out of the cab when they arrived. He grumbled an unintelligible "Good night," as he trudged up the stairs. Sherlock could only grunt in reply.

He looked around, noticing that the television was still on, but Molly and Gabriel were nowhere in sight. A note revealed that a container of pasta had been left for them in the fridge if they were hungry. Sherlock was not. Right now, all he wanted was his bed. The day had been both exciting and grueling. They rushed from one crime scene to another, gathering evidence and putting the pieces together before a serial bomber could strike again. The suspect had begun with small fires that had gradually escalated to more sophisticated devices. Finally, they were able to narrow the field to two suspects, both of which were in custody. Lestrade should be able to wheedle out which one actually lit the fuse, so Sherlock had finally decided to go home.

He wandered down the hall to his room and found the door standing open. He never left his bedroom open. Stepping through, his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. He could just make out the outline of people in his bed. Suddenly he knew how the three bears must have felt. And then, he smelled it. A slight citrus mixed with the sweet scent of jasmine and myrrh. It was Molly's perfume. Reaching over, he found the tiny night light that he kept for Gabriel's sake and switched it on. Sure enough, there was Gabriel and Molly in his bed. She lay on her back with Gabriel's head snuggled against her breast. One arm was around him and the other thrown to the side. Gabriel's fairy tale book lay on the floor, having obviously slipped from her grasp when she fell asleep. Her breathing was light and she murmured softly in her sleep. It was mostly incoherent but one word he made out perfectly: Sherlock.


	15. Mistletoe is For Cheaters

**A/N: You asked for it, kids. I'm going to warn you, the last half of the chapter is pushing the envelope a bit. Pretty hot-ish! I do hope you like it. R & R, babies. It feeds my muse! :) And as always, thank you for all your reads, reviews, follows and favorites. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel and Molly Hooper's underwear. **

Gabriel's eyes fluttered open and for a moment they didn't focus. Then he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway and gasped. "Dad—" he started.

"Shh…" Sherlock hissed, a fingertip pressed to his lips. "Don't wake Doctor Molly." He walked over to the far side of the bed slowly, trying to avoid the creaky spaces on the hardwood floor. He beckoned for Gabriel to come to him and the child obeyed, crawling to the edge and into Sherlock's arms.

As they exited the room quietly, Gabriel threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him tightly. "I missed you, Dad. I haven't seen you all day."

"I know. I missed you too. Believe me, I'd have much rather been here with you." His voice sounded almost alien to him. Was he actually saying that? Did he actually mean it? After a moment he decided that yes, he would have rather been playing with Gabriel than at a crime scene. Which was a testament to the depth of sentiment he'd developed for his son over the last few months. "But guess what? Tomorrow, I should be here all day."

"All day?" Gabriel's sleepy eyes sparkled and he hugged Sherlock tighter. "Hooray!"

Sherlock laughed. "Shh… you're going to wake everyone up."

"Oops…" They trudged up the stairs, Gabriel chattering sleepily about making Christmas decorations and Mary's spaghetti and how Molly had read him the dragon story. "Is Doctor Molly going to stay over?"

"If she doesn't wake up, then I suppose so," he answered.

"But where will you sleep, dad?"

He sighed. "Probably on the couch, Gabe."

"Well you have a big bed. You could sleep with Doctor Molly," he said. Sherlock's throat closed up and he began coughing uncontrollably as he set Gabriel down in front of his bed. "Are you ok, dad?"

"Yeah… just still croaky from being sick," he lied. "Into bed with you. It's late." Gabriel climbed in and immediately snuggled into the blankets, yawning wide. "Love you, kid," he said, tousling Gabe's hair.

"Me too," Gabe replied, his eyes already closed.

**OoOoOo**

Should he wake her? Should he let her sleep? And if he did let her sleep, should he crawl into bed beside her or just take the couch? Questions tumbled and slithered over themselves in his head. Little voices echoed in his ears. John, Mycroft, Sally Donovan, Moriarty, his mother, even his own, all telling him that he wasn't capable of this. Love and sentiment weren't, as Lestrade would say, his division.

_"You machine!"_

_"He'll always let you down."_

_"All hearts are broken."_

_"…final proof."_

Sherlock beat the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Stop it, Holmes," he hissed to himself. "This is ridiculous." He steeled himself, pulling on his armored suit of snark and arrogance as he stepped into his bedroom and turned the desk lamp on. The dim glow illuminated the room slightly and a blade of light fell across her cheek. Sherlock could literally feel the walls crumble as he looked into her face. How could he have been so blind to this before? Because he'd thought he had all the time in the world. He would live forever. But then the realization of his own mortality reminded him that life was fleeting. He wasn't a machine and he couldn't hide from the pain of loss by numbing himself to all feeling.

"Molly," he whispered, kneeling at the bedside. He didn't want to frighten her awake and tried to be as delicate as possible as he touched her brow. Her hair was splayed across the pillow and he stroked his fingers through it. "I'm here, Molly," he said, pressing his lips to her temple. She made a small noise as she stirred. He watched her eyes dart behind their lids as she fought to stay asleep. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "Wake up…" he purred, kissing her lips lightly.

"Mmmm… Sherlock…" she sighed, her eyes fluttering open. "Is that you?"

"It is. I'm home."

Suddenly she realized where she was and who he was and she sat up fast, almost recoiling from him. "Oh… wow… I must have fallen asleep reading to…" She paused, looking around the room. "Where's Gabriel?"

"He's in his bed." Sherlock rolled backward on his feet and stood up in a single, lithe movement. He shrugged off his jacket as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"Oh. Well… I guess I should be going then." She tried to stand up and stumbled, sitting back down on the bed with a surprised squeak. "Damn… my foot's asleep."

He turned, still unfastening the buttons on his shirt. "Why don't you just stay? It's nearly two at this point. You'll play Hell getting a cab at this time of night and I refuse to let you ride the Tube alone."

"Well… tomorrow is my day off… I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I mean, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," he replied. He reached for a clean set of pajamas from his top drawer and tossed Molly the loose gray teeshirt. "Here. Put this on. I'm sure you don't want to sleep in your work clothes."

"Thanks," she stammered, looking around for a place to change. There was a small bathroom and she quickly rushed inside, almost slamming the door behind her.

**OoOoOo**

Molly leaned against the door heavily then slid down until she was sitting on the floor, clutching his shirt to her chest. "Get it together, Hooper," she sighed. He probably didn't mean for her to sleep in his bed with him. One of them would end up on the couch, but he had given her his clothes to sleep in. That had to say something didn't it? "So you've got a choice here, Hooper. You can do what you always do, which is stumble around, not saying what you really mean and looking like an idiot, OR, you can put your big girl pants on and go for it." She wished for a moment that she had one of those inner goddesses like in that stupid bondage romance she'd read.

Quickly, she pulled her clothes off, folding them neatly and stacking them on the counter. She looked down, wondering if she should take her bra off or leave it on. It was one of those push-up jobbies and extremely uncomfortable to sleep in. But on the other hand, at that horrible Christmas party he had commented that her breasts were too small. If she unleashed them, they'd disappear. No, she'd told herself she wasn't going to do that anymore. She was happy with her body and that's all that mattered. Of course, if she took much longer in the bathroom, it would be a moot point. He'd be asleep. She unhooked her bra and draped it over her other clothes before pulling his shirt over her head. Her tiny frame was consumed by the fabric and she laughed as it fell off of her shoulder. Good Lord, it smelled divine. Evidently he wore the shirt a lot because though she could tell it was freshly laundered, she could smell him all over it. The same scent that disarmed her whenever he leaned over her shoulder to see what she was looking at during a post-mortem. The same scent that was so intoxicating that night they'd been snogging on the couch.

Molly looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a train wreck. She combed her fingers through it, trying to make it look less like a rat's nest. Then she looked down at her legs and ran her fingers across them. Luckily she had shaved the night before so the stubble wasn't too bad. Placing her palm over her mouth, she breathed into it, smelling her breath. "Oh Lord…" she sighed. She'd been asleep for over an hour. Her breath would naturally stop a train. She carefully opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and saw a tube of toothpaste. "There is a God…" she whispered, pulling the cap off. Seeing as how she had no toothbrush, she scrubbed her teeth and tongue as best she could with her finger. One more deep breath, a final pat down of her hair and she thought she was ready. "Be brave. Don't be stupid," she whispered just before pulling the door open.

When Molly stepped out of the bath, the room was darker than before, the tiny nightlight the only thing offering any light whatsoever. Sherlock lay on the bed, on top of the covers, his fingers steepled under his lower lip. His pale skin looked almost blue in the moonlight that streamed in through the window. Shadows cast across his naked torso highlighted the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed slowly. The loose fabric of his pajama trousers fell low on his hips, exposing the sharp lines of his pelvic bone and the light dusting of hair just below his navel. His eyes were closed, but she could tell that he wasn't sleeping. She caught a glimmer as one eye opened, staring at her. "Were you planning on standing there staring at me all night?" he asked with a knowing smirk. It was something completely in character for him to say, yet this time he seemed playful rather than sarcastic.

"Oh… I was just wondering… are there extra blankets and pillows for the couch?"

"What for?"

"Well, you know… to sleep under." She crossed her arms, almost hugging herself to keep her hands from shaking and her heart from leaping out of her chest. "It is a little chilly."

"Then get into bed, you silly girl."

"Here? I mean, with you?" Molly squinted, instantly regretting her awkward response but feeling it falling uncontrollably from her lips.

"Why not? It's a big bed. You're a small girl. We're both adults. Problem?" How did he not sound nervous? Not in the least. It was as if he'd been planning every word carefully all night. Why did he have to be so damn sure of himself all the time?

She shook her head and went toward the bed, suddenly extremely aware of how undressed she was. The tail of his teeshirt touched her thighs just above her knee, but as she walked, it rode up, exposing more of her legs than she'd like. She pulled the covers back. They were already messed up from where her and Gabriel had been sleeping before. She climbed in and pulled the blankets over herself quickly, turning so her back was to Sherlock. "Good night," she murmured. He didn't reply, but she felt the bed bounce as he slid under the blanket on the other side. His body was warm and her first instinct was to gravitate toward him. She gripped her pillow tight, her eyes so wide that she thought their lids might tear, letting her eyeballs fall out and roll across the room and down the hall.

"Molly," he said after several minutes. God, just the sound of his voice saying her name sent a shockwave straight to her center. She bit her lip until she could taste the blood. It was the bitter taste of clarity.

"Yes?" she asked, rolling over to find him hovering above her, propped on one elbow. He said nothing more, just leaned in and kissed her soundly. Molly felt her heart drop in her chest and her entire body relax beneath him, luxuriating in the sensation of his kiss. She had missed this so much. Her body missed the way his fit to hers so perfectly and the way his mouth moved so slow and sure. It had been more than a week and that was much too long to be without the addictive opiate that was Sherlock. After several moments, he pulled back and in her delirium she followed, not wanting to give up the taste of him. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. "Are you real?" she asked.

He smiled. "What are you talking about?"

"So many of my fantasies begin this way. I just want to make sure you aren't a bit of fever or just another one of my daydreams."

He shook his head and kissed her again, sliding an arm across her middle and around to cup her hip in his palm. He was gentle but insistent as he pulled her body closer, sealing them together so close that he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. The tips of his fingers played with the edge of the shirt until they found their way under to trace over the bare skin at the back of her thigh. She didn't protest and his hand slid higher, coming to rest on the curve of her ass. There was that spark of electricity again. The one that struck her center, making her warm and wet so that she unknowingly parted her thighs to cool the burning. This time it wasn't sharp, but a dull throb that settled into her womb. She pushed herself against him, knowing that only the contact of his body against hers would assuage that delicious agony.

"I didn't ask you to stay so I could seduce you," Sherlock said, his voice the low thrumming of a sleeping tiger.

"I don't mind," she replied, arching her neck and begging for his kiss. "It's all I ever wanted," she sighed, hoping it didn't sound as cheesy as she thought. "I've thought of it so many times… you have no idea." He nodded, kissing the crest of her cheek and brushing his lips lightly along the delicate bone until he reached her ear. He slid his hand higher, pushing his shirt over her torso, exposing more of her skin. When she made no move to stop him, he simply pulled it over her head and tossed it carelessly behind him.

Molly could feel her face, nay her entire body, blush with white hot embarrassment as she realized that she was practically nude. Suddenly she could hear his voice, that condescending tone that used to drip like venom from his lips, echoing in her head. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts." She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until he stopped, a positively stricken expression darkening his features.

"What? What did you say?" He narrowed his eyes, realizing that his own words had, for once, been turned against him.

"That's what… that's what you said to me that night. The Christmas party. Do you remember it?" She tried to smile, but she couldn't mask how much those words still hurt.

"I… I had no idea…"

"Well I remember it. I hear it every time…" She smiled. "Not that I ever think of it." The corners of her eyes were burning and she clenched her fist, digging her nails into the heel of her hand. "It doesn't matter. It was ages ago. A lifetime, right?"

"It does matter, Molly. And I am sorry. I was so stupid. I didn't think it would matter to you. I never dreamed it would hurt you so. I never mean those things that come out of my mouth sometimes. And I know now, just like I knew then… you're too good for me. But I promise if you let me try, I will be better. I want to be the kind of lover you deserve, Molly Hooper." He lay his head on her chest, his soft curls tickling the oversensitive skin at the center of each breast. "I should have told you every day. You are perfect every day."

Sherlock raised his head, his pale eyes pleading. She reached down, taking his hand and pressing it to her breast. "Put your hands on me."

Immediately his hand covered one breast, squeezing gently. "One would _have_ to be a soulless machine not to be enflamed with lust at seeing you." His thumb found the center and traced around it, just barely touching the skin and watching as it beaded. "The physical response to sexual arousal is quite fascinating, really." He leaned over and licked the swollen nipple, taking it between his lips and gently nibbling. "If only in its simplicity." When he spoke, the generous bow of his lips trilled over the sensitive flesh. Molly exhaled slowly, the tremble in her breathing audible. "It's one of the few biological responses that rely completely on the perception of the mind." Sherlock kissed along the valley between her breasts, gentle, feathery kisses that burned. "For example, if you were not attracted to me…" Her breathing was shallow, watching as he dragged his fingertips slowly down her abdomen and played at the hollow of her navel. "If you felt nothing, then your skin would not prickle." He kissed her neck, his teeth nipping playfully before whispering in her ear. "Your breathing would not labor."

"God…" Molly murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on that sensitive delta of overheated flesh that lay just between her navel and the hood of her sex. With a single fingertip, he pulled at the scalloped, lacy edge of her virginal, pink underwear. She wished that she'd been wearing something more seductive, more grown up, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He peeled away the sticky silk fabric until she was laid bare beneath him.

"Your cheeks are flushed… I can feel the heat radiating from your body…" The tips of his fingers traveled lower to the center of that heat he spoke of. "If your heart wasn't in it, everything would be a mechanical movement. Your consciousness betrays you and that basal, reptilian part of your brain is in control. Of course, at some point physiology will take over, but this…" Deliberately his thumb brushed over the delicate pearl of nerve endings tucked just inside her sex. Molly cried out, her hips jerking toward him. For a moment she had no control and no care for who could hear her. Obviously Sherlock did, because he covered her mouth with his, muffling the sound. "…proof of the mind's power over the body."


	16. Tangled in the Tinsel

**A/N: I apologize for the cliffhanger now. Just know that. This chapter was going to be longer, but it was going to be so much longer that I decided to break it into two pieces. We've got our nice established Sherlolly going and I'm in a Christmas mood... so here goes. As always, reads and reviews are always appreciated! :) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Gabriel. Not even "Pines and Needles." It's an actual store!**

**OoOoOo**

John smelled coffee. It was the intoxicating, caffeinated dark chocolatey scent of fresh perfection. John never woke up to the smell of coffee because he was the only person who ever made it. No one else had trouble _drinking_ it, but he always made it. Had he, in his exhaustion last night, wandered into the wrong flat? He stumbled out of bed and tromped down the stairs. Gabriel was awake, still in his pajamas, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table staring with an almost comical intensity down at a piece of paper. He held a fat pencil tightly in his hand John could tell that he was concentrating on holding it correctly. "Hey, Gabe," he said with a yawn.

"Hi John," he replied, not looking up from his paper. He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes following every stroke of his pencil.

"What are you doing?"

"Practicing writing. I just can't make the pencil do what my brain is telling it to."

John smiled and ruffled the little boy's hair. "You'll get it, mate." He continued into the kitchen where there was indeed a pot of coffee brewing. Sherlock was darting around the kitchen, gathering mugs, sugar and milk. John looked over his shoulder again to make sure he was still in the right flat. Did he take a wrong turn at the stairs? "Good morning?" he said, the lilt in his voice making it more of a question than a greeting.

"Good morning," Sherlock replied. "Coffee?"

"You made coffee?"

"Yes. What's so bad about that?"

"You only make coffee when you're going to poison me."

Sherlock chuckled and handed him a cup. "Fine. Get it yourself." He turned, putting a plate of toast and a bowl of fruit on the table in front of him. "Gabriel, come and eat something." The little boy mumbled something incoherent in response but didn't move. "Now."

"But I'm not hungry," Gabriel sighed, dragging his feet to the table and flopping down in a chair.

"You aren't now, but you will be later," Sherlock replied, putting a spoonful of fruit on Gabriel's plate.

John was spreading jam on his toast when he noticed that he could hear water coming from someplace. "Is the shower running?"

"Yep," Sherlock said. It was all he offered. "Gabriel," he sighed. The child was shoving grapes into his mouth until his cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel storing up for winter. "Stop." Gabriel smiled mischievously and swallowed. Then it was silent. Freakishly silent, save for the obvious sound of the shower in Sherlock's bathroom. John considered pressing for more information, but decided that all would be revealed in time.

And so it was.

Ten minutes later, Molly Hooper strolled down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. Her feet were bare and slapped against the hardwood, making her self-conscious as she took the walk of shame past the refrigerator. John's mouth hung loosely on its hinges, watching her as she fixed a cup of coffee and sat down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock. "Good morning, John," she chirped.

"Is it?" He was very confused. So confused that he didn't even know what to say. He watched as Molly and Sherlock passed food between one another, not speaking but looking very suspicious.

"Oh Gabe… let me help you with that," Molly said, reaching out to take his toast from him and spread jam across it thinly.

"Dad, do we have Nutella?"

"God I hope not," Sherlock replied. "Disgusting death-paste…"

Molly and Gabe gasped in unison. "Nutella is delicious!"

"It's chocolatey and creamy…"

"And it's excellent on a bagel."

Sherlock stared at them. "Do you two own shares in the company or something? The point is that no, we do not have any of that disgusting death-paste."

Molly smirked at him, shaking her head with feigned sadness. "Don't worry, Gabe. I'll bring us a big jar from the market. We can eat it with spoons in front of him." They giggled conspiratorially as she handed the little boy his triangles of toast and jam.

John stared, a piece of toast poised in his hand as he watched the three of them act like nothing special was going on. Sherlock had his nose in the newspaper like usual. Molly cooed and chattered with Gabriel, occasionally stealing a raspberry off of his plate or reaching over Sherlock for another slice of toast. It wasn't computing. It was all too much. John Watson had finally gone over the edge, his PTSD finally catching up to him. "Uhm… what the fuck is going on here?"

Gabriel shot a disapproving look in John's direction. "You aren't supposed to say that word…"

"Honestly, John…" Sherlock scolded with an exaggerated scowl. "There's a child in the room." As if his mouth were sanitized with Holy Water.

"That is _so_ not the point!" John exclaimed. "I feel like I'm going insane. You're making coffee and eating… and then Molly…" He stopped and stood up, carrying his plate and coffee into the living room.

"What's wrong with him?" Gabriel asked.

"No idea."

**OoOoOo**

It was the first sunny day they'd had in two weeks. London was positively glowing with bright blue skies and crisp wintery air. The snow was steadily melting with the warmth of the sun that had finally burst through the thick blanket of clouds that had been lying mistily over the city for the last couple of weeks. It was also the first day that Sherlock and John had not been rushed off their feet from case to case. In fact, neither one had even looked at the website, vowing that unless it was an absolute emergency, they were otherwise engaged. They had promised Gabriel the biggest Christmas tree in London… well, the largest that would fit in the flat… and a promise is a promise. Molly and Mary had even agreed to accompany them on their search. All had been agreeable until Sherlock dared to suggest that Gabriel wear a scarf.

"It strangles us!" Gabriel shrieked, doing a stellar impersonation of Gollum. He'd been obsessed with the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the last few weeks. "It burns us!"

"Funny," Sherlock replied. "It's very cold and very windy and I can't deal with anymore sickness. Put your scarf on."

"But it's sunny out…" Gabriel started.

"The sun has very little to do with the actual temperature." His expression was unmoving as he held it out to his child.

Gabriel stared at the offending strip of wool and then up at his father. Sherlock could tell that he was trying to decide if a scarf was worth a tantrum. He finally took the scarf and threw it around his shoulders casually. "Happy?"

"Not in the least. How is that supposed to keep you warm? If you just throw it around your shoulders, it's more of an accessory."

Gabriel thought this over. "If I wear a scarf, do I have to wear my coat?"

"Yes."

"But Daaaad…" he whined. "I'm hot."

"You're not hot," Sherlock countered, beginning to lose patience. "Once you get outside, you'll be cold enough. And chin up, at least you don't have to wear a hat or gloves." He laughed at Gabriel's dark expression and took the scarf from him, doubling and tying it around the boy's neck.

They turned, hearing familiar feminine voices ascending the stairs. Molly and Mary were chattering to one another as they entered the flat. "Is this where they keep the biggest Christmas tree in London?" Mary called.

"Not yet," Gabriel answered, hugging Mary around the waist. "But it will be."

"I still don't understand why we have to bring outside things inside," Sherlock grumbled. "The needles and sap will be everywhere. Not to mention it's a dead plant that will inevitably dry out and burn the house down."

"You're such a party pooper," Molly scolded Sherlock, getting up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek lightly. "Let the boy have his Christmas tree."

"I suppose you probably think I should let him go traipsing around London half-naked as well," he grumbled, slipping an arm around her waist. It was a casual gesture that should seem alien to Sherlock, but instead came easily.

"No, but you don't have to be such a Grinch either."

"A what?"

"Doctor Molly!" Gabriel called, stretching to be picked up. She obliged and hugged him affectionately. He shot his father a triumphant smirk over his shoulder and kissed her cheek. "Did you bring clothes so you can sleep over again?"

"Uhm…well…" she stammered.

"What's this?" Mary asked, barely noticing that John had come down the stairs to embrace her from behind. She dragged him along, walking toward them. "Sleeping over?" Suddenly everyone was talking at once:

"You know, _Pines and Needles_ won't be open forever," Molly stalled.

"It's only three o'clock," Mary said. "We have plenty of time to stand here and chat."

"But you slept over last night, Doctor Molly—" Gabriel continued.

"Can we please just go?" Sherlock sighed miserably.

John mumbled in Mary's ear, "I'll fill you in later."

"I always assumed that Sherlock was like a dragon. He just flew over and fertilized the female eggs," Mary mused. "Isn't that where we got Gabriel?"

"I'm not a dragon," Gabriel giggled.

"Maybe they actually, literally slept," Mary offered.

"Uhmm… no…" John replied. "Given what I heard before she went home to change…"

"All right!" Sherlock shouted over the din of noise. "Would everyone just shut it so we can go?"

**OoOoOo**

_Pines and Needles_ is **the** place to go in London for a Christmas tree. It must be. There were thousands of people crammed into it, all of them hemming and hawing over a myriad of trees that, to Sherlock, all looked exactly the same. Gabriel was amazed. He'd never seen anything like it. Everywhere you looked there were themed trees, tall trees, short trees, some that were fake, some that had been spray painted pink and even some that were made of straw or sculpted metal. He was even able to ignore the constant chatter and boiling movement of the crowd in favor of running through the aisles of decorated trees. Finally, Sherlock and Molly had taken both his hands and made him walk along with them after a close call with a Victorian style tree.

"I want to go that way!" he whined, pulling them toward the other side of the store.

"You have to calm down, Gabe," Molly said. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"No I'm not! You're all too slow," he grumbled.

"We're waiting on John and Mary," Sherlock reminded him. "They were going to find us a trolley."

"But I want to go over there!" he cried, pointing at the roped off area where all the naked trees were held captive.

"Just wait!" Sherlock shouted. Gabriel responded with a monumental pout, but he stood still.

Molly laid her other hand on Sherlock's shoulder to calm him. She whispered, "Remember. He's five. And he's never really had Christmas before. You're going to have to be a little more patient."

Sherlock cut his eyes toward her and nodded slightly. They stood silently for a moment, watching the chaos around them. Finally Sherlock spoke up. "They're drag queens."

"What?"

"These trees. They look like backstage at a drag show." He watched as a young man carried a tree over to a large metal stand. The young man stood the tree up in the stand, pulled a lever and then, with a terrific noise, a drill shot up from underneath and bobbed up and down, boring a hole in the trunk of the tree in seconds. "Oh my God…" Sherlock looked disgusted.

"What?" Molly said.

"And to add insult to injury, they're raping the poor thing."

Molly dissolved in laughter. "That's the hole for the tree stand, you idiot. So it will stand up straight."

"It looks obscene," he said, his voice cracking with contained giggles.

Before they lost it completely, John and Mary returned with the trolley. "I thought we were going to have to run over this old lady for the last trolley in the corral."

**OoOoOo**

There's always an ominous calm before any storm. Everyone was happy and laughing. Couples were holding hands. For a few minutes, Gabriel even sat on his father's shoulders. And then, disaster on Aisle Five.

The fir trees.


	17. Clean Up on Aisle Five

**A/N: Hey kids! I'm baaaaccckkk...! And with more hilarity. I was told that I couldn't just "leave it like that!" so here's the continuation. Also, one of my amazing readers mentioned that one of those chapters was just a teensy bit too hot for T, so if I offended anyone, I do apologize. However, I will make sure that I have big warnings next time. This chapter is very clean. Almost sanitary! Most of the story is perfectly PG13, so not to worry. Thanks again for the AWESOME response to this story. If I could write my marketable novels this quickly, I'd be a millionaire by now and it's all because of you and your glorious encouragement! Anywhoo... here you are.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Gabriel. **

The thing that sucks about shopping with adults is that a kid never gets to see what he wants to see. He has to wander around aimlessly at the end of someone's arm looking at all sorts of things in which he hasn't the slightest interest. Gabriel was becoming more and more familiar with this sensation. Whenever he went to the market with John or Mrs. Hudson, they never let him go down the toy aisle or the candy aisle. The last time he had to go clothes shopping, he just followed Mary around where she picked out things _she_ liked and then spent an hour putting them on him and taking them off. By the time they got home, he was tired and weepy. By the time they had finally perused all the lights, ornaments, tree skirts, stockings, fake snow, ribbons and gift wrap, Gabriel had started to think that the actual trees were just an illusion that they used to draw kids into the store.

They turned the corner and for a moment, Gabriel could hear angels singing. The tree area! He could smell the light, woodsy scent of the different trees. It was much more pungent than when he went outside, even at St. Christopher's where there had been a wide expanse of forest behind the chapel. Unlike the other trees all over the store, these were completely bare, just waiting to be taken home and trimmed with baubles, ribbons and chocolates. There were all sizes: short and fat, tall and skinny. He couldn't help himself anymore and broke away from his dad and Molly, running toward the manufactured forest.

"I like this one," John said, walking up to a short cedar tree with wide, lacy looking branches. It had not been put through the Christmas pencil sharpener so it looked as if they had just ripped it up out of the forest.

"It doesn't look like a Christmas tree, John," Mary giggled.

"Sure it does. I mean, it's a tree."

"Christmas trees are supposed to be bright green and triangular."

"This one isn't bad." Everyone jumped when Sherlock spoke. They hadn't expected him to offer an opinion about anything. He stood next to a tall fir tree that was thin and prickly.

"You'd never get that one up the stairs," Molly sighed.

"Has anyone else noticed that John and Sherlock chose themselves as trees?" Mary mumbled.

"I like this one!" Gabriel shrieked. He'd run down to the end of the aisle to where the trees started to get a little dodgy. It was like the Christmas tree graveyard. Most of them had bald spots, crooked trunks, or sparse foliage. The tree Gabriel stood in front of looked as if it should be adorning Schroder's piano on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, receiving smacks from both Molly and John. "I mean, wow."

"Can't we have this tree?" Gabriel begged.

"Have it? They might pay us to take it," Sherlock replied, dodging the blows this time. "I said you could have whichever one you wanted."

Mary knelt down to Gabe's level. "Don't you want something a little… you know… bigger?"

"That's what she said," John muttered, he and Sherlock snorting simultaneously.

"No," he replied, his expression stoic. "I like this one. It's the one nobody wants."

Suddenly Sherlock piped up. "It's perfect. Oi!" he called to the clerk that stood nearby. "This is the one I want." The clerk, looking at them strangely, netted the pitiful looking tree and carried it up to the front of the store to wait for them. "Excellent. It only took us two hours," he grumbled, holding his hand out to Gabriel. "Let's go." When the boy didn't immediately take his hand, he turned to see him on the other side of the aisle, gazing at a bright display.

The other side of the aisle was devoted to spectacular light displays, mostly for the outside of your house. There were wreaths made of light as well as animatronic reindeer that glowed, angels with ethereal wings and the like. On the very end, in perhaps the strangest expression of Christmas cheer ever, was a life-sized statue of Jack Skellington, the depressed Pumpkin King, all dressed up as "the Sandy Claws." Sherlock could tell from the look on Gabriel's face that he was completely transfixed. The big, round skull glowed spookily and his arms and torso moved. "Wicked," Gabriel sighed as he gaped up at the figure.

"I love that movie," Molly said strolling over to where he stood. "I always fancied myself a Sally."

"Dad, can't we have this?" Gabriel asked, running over to Sherlock and grabbing hold of his coat.

Sherlock shook his head. "Gabe, that's really an outside sort of decoration. Since we don't have a garden…"

"But you said that the tree was an outside sort of decoration too, but we're getting one of those," he countered.

"That's different."

"Gabriel, that thing is way too big for the flat," John said. He peered down at the price tag hung around Jack's outstretched fingertip. "Holy Mary…" he gasped.

"It isn't a toy, Gabriel. And it's way too expensive for something like that…"

"Please? It could go in my room! I wouldn't need my nightlight anymore," he begged, tugging at his father's coat insistently. "Pleeaaaassseeee?"

"I don't think so, Gabe. It would take up too much space in your room. You'd break it trying to get to the wardrobe. For God's sake, it's taller than I am. It might not even fit!"

"Yes it will! Pleeeaassseee? Please, please, please!"

"The long progression of 'pleases' really isn't going to sway my decision," Sherlock sighed. "I said no."

Gabriel glared at him, his eyes narrowing and his mouth pulling into a murderous scowl. He crossed his arms in front of his chest in a stance that said he was not moving from this spot until he got what he wanted. It was a stance that Sherlock knew very well. Only he was usually the one with his arms crossed. "You never get me what I want," the little boy growled.

"Oh really?" Sherlock chuckled. The others saw the writing on the wall and began walking away slowly. John shooed them toward the front of the store. "Never?"

"Never! You don't even want me around. The only reason you let me stay is because the police say you have to."

"That's ridiculous, Gabriel," he said. "I let you stay because you're my child and I love you. But I'm still not buying an enormous animatronic skeleton." He was concentrating on keeping his jaw clenched and his breath even. This would not be the place to completely lose his temper with his child. Little known fact was that despite Sherlock's prickly disposition, most of the time he was pretty temperate. Even when he was annoyed. It took a lot to set him off, but once the boiling point came, it was an explosion of epic proportions. And the warning of impending danger was a quiet calm. Much like the quiet calm he was currently exhibiting.

"No you don't!" Gabriel cried, angry tears starting to gather in the corners of his eyes. "If you loved me at all, you'd get it for me!"

"Really? So that trolley full of fairy lights and decorations was all for me. Oh and then there's the piles of clothes, toys, books and art supplies that are strewn all over my house all the time—those are all for me too. Then of course, I employed Mary just so John would have a companion. And let us not forget the numerous times I've given you food, taken you to the park, cleaned up after you when you were sick, tucked you into bed, read you stories—even going so far as to act them out for your pleasure. Not to mention that I have changed my entire way of life to accommodate you, but none of those things should indicate that I have any love for you whatsoever!"

Gabriel's expression softened slightly and he sighed. "Please, Dad. I won't ask for anything else."

"No. Let's go." He offered Gabriel his hand once more. The boy just looked at it, keeping his arms folded in front of him. "Come on, Gabe. Everyone is waiting for us."

"No!" he said. "You said I could have whatever I wanted!"

"I said you could have whatever tree you wanted. That is not a tree. Don't try to trick me, Gabriel. I said no. This conversation is over." He offered his hand once more. "Come on. Now."

Gabriel turned up his nose defiantly. "No." He stomped his foot defiantly for emphasis. With a sideward glance, Sherlock noticed that people were starting to stare at their standoff. He would have to diffuse this quickly.

"Fine. The rest of us are leaving for dinner and then to decorate the tree. Laters." He turned on his heel and started off up the aisle, knowing that the child would immediately realize that his resolve was iron clad and come running. He only made it halfway before he heard the screaming. Sherlock turned to see that Gabriel had thrown himself down on the concrete floor, kicking and screaming in the throes of a full-on five-year old Christmas meltdown. He'd had tantrums before but never in public and never to this degree. He'd shout and cry but eventually, Sherlock would triumph. Even the drama over the bathing problem had flared up quickly but was gone just as fast. This time, it was as if some demon had taken over Gabriel's body. Store patrons and clerks had stopped to watch his little performance and Sherlock was sorely tempted just to keep walking.

He turned and walked back to his child, feeling his own rage welling up. Gabriel's face was bright red, almost purple in places as if his anger had bruised him. His tiny fists beat the tile floor and he'd nearly kicked one of his shoes off with his flailing. He was screaming and crying, unintelligibly for the most part, but Sherlock was able to pick out "I hate you," and "You're the meanest dad in the world." It was obvious that this situation was now beyond reason. He would have to do something. They were drawing a crowd. Swallowing his anger, he strode over to the child and bent over, throwing him over one shoulder. Sherlock carefully avoided Gabriel's fists and feet as he walked toward the front of the store, but the assault on his eardrum was inescapable. One arm held onto the squirming child while the other fished around in his pocket for his wallet.

As they passed through to the front of the store, Gabriel's wails had turned to shuddering sobs with an occasional, "Put me down," thrown in for good measure.

"My God, is everything all right?" John asked, spotting them from where the rest of the group stood with their shopping trolley.

"We're fine," Sherlock replied curtly, tossing his wallet at John. "See you at home."

**OoOoOo**

"Do you think we should take them something to eat?" Mary asked, putting her napkin aside and finishing the wine at the bottom of her glass.

John shook his head vigorously. "Nooo… in fact, I'm not even sure we should go home. Ever again." He smiled warmly at the waitress who brought the bill. "Ta."

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed. "We'll need that split up. I'm on my own…"

"No no," John said. "I've got it. Sherlock meant to pay for you." He pushed Molly's card back across the table and handed the waitress his own.

"Thanks. You didn't have to do that," she stammered. "I'm capable of buying my own dinner." John and Mary were so sweet, trying their best to keep her from feeling like a third wheel. She'd considered taking a cab back home when they left Pines and Needles, but they had insisted that she eat with them. Both had been pussy-footing around the subject of her and Sherlock. They clearly wanted to know what was going on, but she wasn't sure she wanted to tell them. It wasn't as if Molly didn't know that everyone in the world was well aware of her infatuation with Sherlock and had been for some time.

The first time she met him, he'd looked very different from the man she knew now. He had been painfully thin with pale skin, drawn features and a mane of wild black curly hair that almost reached his shoulders. He was not refined in the least, wearing tattered blue jeans and a black teeshirt, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He'd had obvious track marks on his forearms and was shaking from DTs. Lestrade had hauled him in to look at a body in exchange for not being arrested for possession. In thirty seconds he'd determined the cause of death, the time of death, where the body had been before being dumped, along with the murderer's height, build and possible occupation. Sherlock didn't remember, but he'd propositioned her that night to gain access to the drug cabinet. Still a naïve student, she'd been completely flustered by his aggressive advances, his brilliance even in an opiate haze and the jerky, yet graceful movement of his body. As soon as he'd left, Mike Stamford had said, with a knowing glance, "I think Miss Hooper is ruined forevermore." The fact is, Molly wore her heart on her sleeve at all times and it was pretty pointless now to try and hide it.

"Molly, could you go with me to the bathroom?" Mary asked, rising from the table. "I hate going alone." John raised his eyebrow and she grinned like the cat that ate the canary.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Mary grabbed Molly's arm and pulled her forcefully into the bathroom. "Ow! Jesus, Mary!"

"Okay… no more beating about the bush. I want to hear everything. Every minute detail. A play-by-play. Leave nothing out."

"Uhm… what are you talking about?" Molly was very good at playing dumb.

"Oh come on, Molly. We've been friends for ages and for most of it, I've been having to listen to you moon over Sherlock Holmes. Now spill it."

"Well… what do you want to know?" she stammered, her eyes darting around the room and praying that no one else was in the ladies' room.

"What's he like?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean, Miss Molly. You're no virgin. What was he like in bed?"

Molly's mouth hung agape, disbelieving that she was being asked such an indelicate and personal question. Her cheeks felt hot and suddenly it was as if her skin was stretched too tightly. But then, the smile that had been threatening to break through finally made its way to the surface and she almost giggled as she sank down on the settee in the lounge area. "You're right, I'm no virgin, but I never knew it could make your eye twitch like that. I literally thought I was going blind."


	18. The Naughty List

**A/N: Weekends are so busy! Sorry it took a while to get this part posted. I hope it's entertaining. I was a little distracted this weekend. As always, thank you so much for all your reader-love. You make my muse soooo happy! :)**

"Okay, I'll go in first and if all is well, I'll wave you in," John whispered as they slipped through the front door. He spied Mrs. Hudson in her sitting room and entered quietly. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh! Hello, dear. You startled me," she said, clutching her cardigan closely around her shoulders.

"Hi, uhm… is everything all right?" John stammered.

"Well… I think so. It's all been quiet up there for about forty-five minutes. But gracious, for a while there it was a warzone. Though I have to hand it to Sherlock, he was very calm. He wasn't shouting or anything. I've never seen Gabriel so out of sorts, the poor dear. Kicking and screaming and crying. It was terrible. But all seems to be quiet now."

"Do you think we should go up or just leave them alone?" Mary asked, taking John's arm as he led both girls up the stairs. "I mean, it would seem to be a row between the two of them. I don't want to feel like we're intruding."

John shook his head. "For one thing, I live here so I have every right to be in my own house. For another, we might need to check and make sure Gabriel's still alive."

"You think Sherlock was that angry?" Molly said. "Mrs. Hudson said he was pretty calm. And he didn't look too… agitated when they left the store."

"That's what scares me."

The trio entered the flat reluctantly, peering around the corner as they emerged from the hallway and into the sitting room. Sherlock stood at the window with his violin and bow in one hand and scribbling on staff paper with his other. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen nor heard. A pile of bags and the sparse Christmas tree that Gabe had chosen were in the corner waiting. They moved across the floor as one entity, all of them afraid that the gates of Hell were about to open. John nudged Molly's arm, implying that since she was apparently now sleeping with Sherlock, that she should be the one to approach the beast, as it were. "Hi!" she chirped, trying to sound cheerful.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, regarding them all with a terse grin and going back to his music. Tucking the violin under his chin, he began to play. The song wasn't happy, but it wasn't sad or dirge-like. It gave one the oddest sense that it was about to storm.

"Is that good or bad?" Molly whispered to John. He shrugged, but deemed it safe enough to take off his coat. The others followed suit and moved around the flat, talking quietly amongst themselves. Molly hung her coat on the hook by the door and tried to be casual as she approached Sherlock. She placed her hand in the small of his back in a calming, but affectionate gesture. He splattered one of the notes and sighed, interrupted. "Oh… I'm sorry," she stammered, starting to walk away. He reached out and gripped her arm gently, stopping her.

"No need," he replied, brushing a kiss lightly on her mouth. "I'm just a little tense is all."

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied. "They delivered the tree and all the other stuff just before you got here." He gestured toward the door with the bow of his violin.

"Do you still think we should… you know… put it up?" Molly asked.

"By all means," Sherlock replied, setting his violin aside. "The tree will dry out completely if we don't. It looks like the poor thing's on its last legs anyway."

"Where's Gabriel? I mean, should we get him? It is _his_ Christmas tree…" John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "He'll come down when he's ready. I'll go check on him in a little while if he's not down when we get ready to put the lights on it." Mary turned on the stereo, finding a station of nothing but Christmas music. John opened a bottle of wine and poured everyone a glass, including Mrs. Hudson who walked up from downstairs once she heard the all clear. Soon everyone was talking and laughing, almost relaxed. Sherlock and John cursed at one another playfully as they tried to maneuver the tree into the stand they'd purchased. "We have to violate the thing once more by shoving this spike into the hole?"

"And beat the shit out of it with a hammer, yes."

Mrs. Hudson opened up a box of ornaments that she'd brought up. "I saved these. I don't usually do a tree anymore since my children are gone, but I thought we might need more." The girls oohed and ahhed over the delicate, Victorian styled ornaments that she'd carefully wrapped in tissue paper and saved. "I didn't have many left after the divorce."

"Oh, we have to remember the chains and popcorn Gabe and I strung," Mary said, stepping over the boxes and going to the cupboard.

"Oh look!" Molly exclaimed, pulling a delicate ornament from Mrs. Hudson's stash. "It's mistletoe."

Mrs. Hudson smiled wistfully, obvious memories welling up in her eyes. "It's real, you know. My husband climbed into the top of a tree in Hyde Park to get that down for me. We were so young. Long before he lost his marbles, the poor dear. I sprayed it with lacquer to keep it pretty like that. I can't believe it's lasted so long."

"Oh, then we have to put it up someplace," Molly said. "Perhaps down in your flat, Mrs. H.?"

"Good heavens, no. There's no kissing going on down there. Though I've heard there's plenty up here…"

Molly giggled and took the mistletoe to Sherlock. "Where should we hang it?" she asked, lacing it between her fingers.

"Over your head, of course," he replied, taking the plant from her and holding it over their heads before kissing her lips and drawing an exaggerated _awwww_ from the rest of the room. He gave a wink and hung it carefully over the archway at the top of the stairs. "There. Now no one is safe." When he turned around, he noticed that Gabriel was sitting at the foot of the stairs watching. "Oh. Hello."

The kid looked wrecked. His eyes were puffy and his hair was all over the place. His clothes were wrinkled and smudged with dirt from the floor at the shop. His feet were bare save for his stripey socks. He sat on the stairs with his knees under his chin. "Hi."

"Why are you sitting over here by yourself?" Sherlock asked, kneeling down in front of him.

Gabriel shrugged. "I didn't think you wanted me around."

"Of course I want you around. Everyone wants you around."

"You said I had to stay in my room…"

"Until you calmed down. Are you calm?"

"Yes," Gabe sighed. "I'm not mad anymore." He looked down at his feet, tapping his fingers nervously on his knees. "Are you?"

"No. However, you and I need to come to an understanding." Reaching behind him, he closed the door between the hall and the stairwell quietly. "You will never get what you want throwing a tantrum. Have I ever given you any indication that such behavior will affect my decision on any matter?"

"No."

"Good. Because if you ever put me or our friends in that position again, I won't be nearly as understanding. No means no and given the fact that, despite the absurdity of the idea, I am the father in this situation, what I say goes." Sherlock stared, unblinking and stoic, at Gabriel.

The boy nodded. "Yes, Dad." He sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Sherlock said with grin. He jerked his head, beckoning him forward. "Come here." Gabriel threw his arms around his father's neck, hugging him tightly. He stood up, Gabriel dangling around his neck and giggling. "Are you hungry?" he asked, stumbling through the door to where the others had already begun stringing lights.

"Kind of."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, dropping him off on a kitchen chair.

"I dunno. What do we have? A sandwich I guess."

"What sort? Jam? Peanut butter? Marmite and cheese?" He said the last one with a hint of sarcasm. Deathpaste indeed.

**OoOoOo**

"Eeww... no… peanut butter will do." As Sherlock prepared the sandwich, Gabriel hopped down from the chair and wandered into the sitting room. The others regarded him with smiles and hugs. It was a surprise. He'd assumed that the adults would be angry, but they all acted as if nothing had happened. "What are you doing?" he asked John, leaning on the doctor's side as he untangled the lights.

"I can honestly say I'm not sure. You'd think that fairy lights fresh out of the box would be untangled and neat. Not so, apparently."

Gabriel chewed at his lower lip for a second and then pointed. "Take the twisty-tie off."

"Oh. Yes. Thanks, Gabe." John ruffled his hair and began unrolling the light strand. Mary came around behind them with another strand.

Kneeling down, she hooked her strand into John's and kissed Gabe on the top of his head. "Feeling better, chum?"He nodded, taking a triangle of the peanut butter sandwich his father put in front of him. It was gooey and stuck to the roof of his mouth with just enough jam to be sickeningly sweet. Just the way he liked it.

"Shouldn't we test those lights before you put them on the tree?" Molly offered as John and Sherlock began wrapping the strands around the tree.

"Why?" they answered in unison. "They're brand new."

"Well that doesn't necessarily mean they aren't defective," Mary said.

"Don't try to tell them anything," Mrs. Hudson mused, her arms crossed haughtily in front of her chest. "They know everything about decorating trees."

"It'll be fine," Sherlock sighed, gesturing for Gabriel to hand him another strand. He turned back to notice that John was wrapping the lights around each individual branch. "Oh for God's sake! We'll be here all night if you keep on like that!"

"This is how you're supposed to do it!"

"Maybe if you push them down toward the trunk more," Molly interrupted.

"You aren't _supposed_ to do it like that. We'll never get them off again!"

"Well if you'd rather do it yourself! I'm sure you and your _massive intellect_ can do a much better job!"

Mary bravely stepped between them and took the lights from John. "Go… sit down! Both of you!" She handed a strand to Molly and another to Mrs. Hudson. In five minutes, the lights were evenly distributed and the trio of women were staring triumphantly.

John cleared his throat. "There's a spot just there…."

All three turned a murderous glare on him. "Yeah?"

"Nothing."

**OoOoOo**

It was late when the last ornaments were placed on the tree. Looking up at the tree now, it seemed silly that they had been worried that they wouldn't have enough decoration. The Charlie Brown tree now looked almost full with baubles, chocolates, tinsel, popcorn strings, and fairy lights. Everyone had dribbled out slowly, even John and Mary who had decided to retire to her flat. Gabriel passed out under the tree, so exhausted that he was snoring lightly. Sherlock had managed to get him into his bed without waking him. When he arrived back downstairs, Molly was dozing on the couch, her wine glass balanced precariously between her fingertips. He rescued it just before she tipped it over, spilling the remaining drops of Riesling on the floor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, starting as she awoke. "Sorry… I must have dozed off for a minute."

"It's late," he murmured, taking her hand and pulling her into his embrace. He tipped her chin higher and kissed her gently. "Let's go to bed," he whispered against her lips. Molly nodded, almost obediently. She took his hand to follow him. As they negotiated around the coffee table, Molly hit her knee on the corner, stumbling forward.

"Ow…"

Sherlock sighed, feigning annoyance. "Really, Dr. Hooper! Are we going to have to resort to wrapping you in bubble wrap?" Before she could reply, he swept her dramatically into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel woke up just as the dragon raised its body to breathe fire and completely annihilate him. "Dad!" he called out, sitting up fast. It was dark, save for his nightlight and it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust. He rubbed them, staring around the room to be sure that the great and terrible red dragon hadn't followed him from his dreams and into his room. The colored starbursts behind his eyes seemed to morph into the fiery eyes and gnashing teeth. He pulled the blankets up higher and called out for his father again. "Daddy!" he shouted. But no one came. Not even John. Why couldn't they hear him? Maybe the dragon had gotten to them first. Gabriel chewed his lower lip, trying to remind himself that there were no such things as dragons. He would have to just be brave and go downstairs on his own.

Slowly, he swung his legs over and stepped out of bed. He paused, waiting to see if he could feel any warm breath on his toes. Feeling nothing, he crept out the door and down the hall. The third step from the bottom squeaked and Gabriel tried not to hit it. Just in case he was being stalked. When he arrived at the bottom, he peeked around the corner. Nothing but darkness and a few blades of light from the windows. He decided it was safe enough and he started down the corridor.

His father's door was closed. That would explain why he couldn't hear him calling. It was also strange. He never closed his bedroom door at night. As he got closer, Gabriel noticed that he could hear voices. He wrinkled his brow, wondering who would be talking so late at night. He couldn't make out what was being said, but one was obviously his father's deep, resonating tone. The other was quieter and higher-pitched, with a lot of highs and lows, almost like singing. Then, what sounded like a giggle.

When Gabriel got to the door, he turned the knob carefully, finding that it was not locked. The door creaked as it opened just a crack. He peered around the door. "Dad?"

"Gabriel!" he exclaimed, pulling a pillow down and covering Molly's face with it while simultaneously pulling the duvet over them. "What are you doing out of bed?" His voice was higher than usual and he was out of breath.

"Is that Doctor Molly in there?"

"Hi Gabe!" her muffled voice called from under the pillow. Her slender arm shot up to wave at him.

"Are you ok? It sounds like you can't breathe," Gabriel continued.

"We're fine. Did you need something?" Sherlock asked.

"I had a bad dream. Can I have a cup of water?"

"Yeah… just uhm… wait in the hall a second…" Gabriel shrugged and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Sherlock threw the pillow aside, looking down at Molly. "We have to start locking that door…"


	19. Tis the Season for Heroes, pt 1

**A/N: Gosh, I'm long winded. I was writing along and realized that this chapter was already up to over 2500 words! And given that I don't want to take up your whole day reading my little story, I like to keep them in that range. Sooo... I decided to break it up. So you guys get a good cliffhanger today! :) In other news, my faithful reviewers (you know who you are) always manage to make my day with your comments! And a big shout out to all the new followers! Who knew a parent!lock/ sherlolly thing would get so much play!? Anyway, here goes...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel and Katie.**

"Yes, Sir. I'll get on it right away." Molly sighed, backing out of the new pathology chief's office. The mountains of files were piled so high that she couldn't see where she was going as she made her way back to the lab. Her cheeks burned with anger and frustration. That man had been making her life miserable ever since they hired him on three weeks before. He'd made it perfectly clear that he believed women had no place in forensic medicine, or in medicine for that matter. Unless, of course, it was as a nurse. It was also rumored that he was making a bid to clean out the department and push his own protégé into her position. If only Mike was still here. He'd always regarded Molly as his most gifted student. She was also the only one of her colleagues that could deal with Sherlock. But Mike had been promoted to an associate dean and was mostly in the classroom. That's when Doctor Doom had been hired to take over. In those vengeful cockles of her heart, she secretly wished that he would happen to run into Sherlock. The creepy little toad would undoubtedly say something stupid and it would give Molly great pleasure to watch him be verbally annihilated.

She managed to make it down the hall, into the elevator and down to the basement with her heavy burden. The double doors leading into the mortuary were cracked. "Finally, a bit of luck," she sighed. There was no way she'd be able to retrieve her keycard with all this crap in her arms. Her arms that were now screaming with overexertion. Just as she reached the doors and was about to stick her foot between them, John Watson came barreling through. File folders went everywhere as the edge of the door made contact with Molly's nose.

"Oh God…Molly… I'm so sorry…" John stammered. "Are you all right?"

She sat down pitifully on the floor and began to weep profusely.

"Shit… Molly." He knelt down beside her, pulling her arm over his shoulder to help her up. Her nose had begun to bleed and the area under both eyes was already beginning to swell. She'd have quite a set of black eyes before long. "Come on… we need to get that fixed up."

"But… the folders…" she sobbed. "Everything is jumbled now. Ruined!"

"I'll take care of those," John soothed, pulling her into the lab and making her sit down on a gurney. "You just sit here and I'll get some gauze and ice." She directed him to where the first aid kits were tearfully. She wanted to stop crying, but she just couldn't. The stress of her day meshed with the pain in her face and the humiliation of crying in front of John. It had taken its toll and now that she'd started, she just couldn't stop.

"Oh God… Sherlock's not with you is he?"

"No," John replied, coming back with a bag full of ice. "He said to come here and collect a toxicology report from you. He's still in Brighton. Do you want me to call him?"

"God no… I don't want him to see me like this," she whined. Her voice had taken on the hollow, distorted tone of someone with a blocked up nose as her face swelled.

John tipped her head back and handed her the ice pack. "Keep this on it. That should help the swelling some. It doesn't look broken or anything." She knew there was blood running down her face, but honestly she didn't care. She could only cry harder, hoping that her tears would wash some of the blood away. "It's all right, Molly. Just calm down. You're going to be fine."

"Oh it's not my stupid nose," she spat. "My new boss is an idiot and I think he's trying to kill me."

"What do you mean?" John asked, brushing her hair away from her face. "This is obviously not just some scattered folders and a bloody nose."

"He just gave me back all those folders and is making me do them over! He said they were all wrong, that'd I'd been doing them wrong for years and no one had bothered to correct me! This is on top of the three double shifts he scheduled me for this week, all the additional paperwork he's mandated and…" Her voice caught in her throat. "… and he's making me work Christmas! I've worked here for eight years to get to be off on Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day! And now this year… the first time I've actually…had someplace to be… people to share the holiday with… and that… odious creature is trying to take it away!" She collapsed against John's shoulder crying pitifully like a little kid. "I'm so sorry, John… I don't mean to just go to pieces on you. But I'm just so… frustrated! He's always yelling at me and pushing me further and further… I just don't know how much more I can take! This morning, knowing I was going to have to work with him today… I threw up twice!"

John embraced his friend, letting her cry on his shoulder. He was sympathetic, but also furious that someone out there could possibly be mean to someone as sweet and kind as Molly Hooper. "How long has this been going on?"

"They hired him three weeks ago," she sniffled. "And I haven't really let it get to me until today. I just did my best to avoid him and got on with it. But last night he left me a note to come to his office when I came in this morning and that's when he started yelling at me about those stupid charts and then he told me about the Christmas schedule. All the while one of those scumsucking interns of his was standing right there watching me be humiliated. I mean… I'm good at my job, damnit!" She paused and looked up at John uncertainly. "Aren't I?"

**OoOoOo**

"She was a mess, Mary. Really. I'm worried about her." John sighed, taking a sip of his coffee as he sat on a bench in the park, watching Gabriel play.

"The guy sounds like an insufferable bully," Mary agreed. "Poor Molly. Do you think we should do something? Maybe tell Sherlock?"

John laughed mirthlessly. "Oh nooo…. No no no. That would definitely not be the thing to do. I mean, you know how he is. If he threw that guy out the window at Bart's, he'd do more damage than a couple of fractured ribs. I don't think Lestrade could get him out of that one. No matter how much the guy deserved it."

Gabriel and his friend Katie ran over to them. Their cheeks were red with the cold and both were laughing like a couple of drains. "Who is this pretty little bird?" John asked, handing Gabe his cup of hot chocolate.

"This is Katie. She's my friend. She lives around the corner." Gabriel passed Katie his cup. "Mary makes the best hot chocolate ever. And this is my John," he said to Katie. "He doesn't usually come to the park with us."

"Hello, Mary!" Katie said brightly, wiping hot chocolate off of her chin. "Hello, John. Do you live with Gabriel and his daddy?"

"Yeah, Gabriel's dad and me are flatmates."

"John's like dad's best friend. Like you're mine," he said, throwing an arm around Katie's shoulders. "And he's Mary's boyfriend."

"Oh, ok!" she agreed, reciprocating Gabriel's embrace as Mary took a picture of them with her phone.

"Gabe, it's getting late and cold," John said, tightening the child's scarf a little. "We'll have to go in just a few minutes."

"Ten minutes?" Gabe asked hopefully.

"Five," Mary answered. "I can't feel my feet." Gabriel nodded and the two of them scampered off across the playground.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel fell down in the pile of leaves beside Katie, both of them looking up at the sky. "Did you mean what you said, Gabe?"

"When?" he asked, panting after their chase.

"Am I your best friend?" she asked.

"Sure. I don't really have any others. Well, not others that are little like me."

Katie smiled, her cheeks a little more rosy than they were before. "I'm glad you're my friend, Gabriel." She took his hand and laced their fingers together. "I don't have a lot of friends. Some kids say I'm a show off."

"What's wrong with that? My dad says that it's no fun being smart if you can't prove it."

Katie giggled. "I wish you went to my school, Gabe. Then I'd have one friend, at least." Katie sat up fast, hearing her mom calling. "Oops… I have to go. My daddy's supposed to be home tonight! We're having spaghetti." Gabriel scrambled to his feet and helped his friend up. She hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek. "I like you, Gabe. Even if you are a boy." She started to run toward her mom, then stopped and turned back. "I forgot. My Christmas play is on Friday. Can you come?"

"My dad said he and Molly could take me if I wanted to go."

"Yay!" she exclaimed, hugging him again before running off.

**OoOoOo**

"I think there's something wrong with this tree. Every time we find one burned out bulb, another one goes out, knocking out the entire strand," Molly complained, throwing down the light box in frustration. "We should just set the damn thing on fire!"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at Molly's outburst. She had been acting strangely all evening, even going so far as to snap at him when he dared to suggest that her foul mood might be attributed to the imminent arrival of her menses. "I don't have PMS!" she'd shouted. "And how would you know anyway?"

"I thought that it would be prudent to be aware of such things if we're going to continue having intercourse," he'd replied. That was the point at which she'd banished him to his desk.

"Are you sure you're all right, Molly?" he asked. "You don't seem yourself tonight. I mean, have I upset you somehow?" He recounted the last couple of hours since he'd returned from Brighton and met her at Baker Street. Aside from the menses remark, he didn't think he had done or said anything that might have made her angry. He hadn't even commented on the raccoon appearance of her eyes from where, according to John, she'd run into the wall at Bart's earlier.

"I'm fine," she sighed, flopping down in his armchair and flipping the channels on the television boredly.

He pushed back from his desk and went to her. "That is so obviously not the case," he said and without another word, picked up her small frame and sat down, pulling her into his lap. "Your eyes are narrow and your lips, normally tiny and completely adorable, are pursed so tightly that they've nearly disappeared." Pushing her hair back from her neck, he kissed the corner of her jaw. "And your jaw is tense like you're gritting your teeth. Not to mention that normally when I touch you, you immediately melt into my arms, but tonight every muscle in your body is pulled taut. So just spill it."

"Please don't deduce me tonight," she sighed, laying her head on his shoulder. "My day has been far too stressful to try and hold my own under your scrutinizing gaze."

"What happened?"

She sighed. "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it. I did need to tell you, though… they changed my schedule for Christmas. I'll have to work the whole time."

"I thought you were…"

"Yeah, so did I. But… you know how things go…" She avoided his gaze, suddenly extremely interested in the back of her hand. He started to press, but they heard the door downstairs open and the sound of Gabriel's footsteps as he raced up the stairs, followed closely by John and Mary. "I'll be back," she said, rising from the chair and planting a kiss on the top of Gabriel's head as she passed. She disappeared down the corridor, Sherlock staring after her with his fingertips steepled under his chin.

"Hi, dad!" Gabriel chirped, gladly taking Molly's place in his father's lap and snuggling against him.

"Hey, Gabe," Sherlock replied, his voice a little distant as he continued to gaze after Molly. "Did you have a nice time in the park?"

"Pretty much," Gabe said, pulling Sherlock's magnifier out of his breast pocket. He held it up to his eye so it looked enormous. "Katie's play is Friday. We're going aren't we?"

"If you want to," Sherlock sighed, his mind still locked on whatever was going on with Molly. She'd run into a wall at work, which was ridiculously clumsy, even for Molly. When he asked about the lab earlier, she'd snapped at him. She'd been speaking in hushed tones on her mobile with Mike Stamford earlier. And then the sudden change in her Christmas schedule that seemed to be a point of particular annoyance. Whatever was wrong with her must have something to do with work. What's changed in her work lately? The new chief pathologist. Mike got a promotion and they hired a new chief.

"She wants me to," Gabriel said. "She says she doesn't have any friends at school. Why do you think that is, dad? Katie's nice. I mean, I like her."

"Maybe she's shy," he answered absently. "And she does have you. One friend is all anyone really needs, isn't it?" He looked up at John and Mary who had missed the entire exchange because they couldn't manage to take their coats off without snogging in the corner. "John! You went to the lab this morning didn't you?" He nudged Gabriel off of his lap and went into the kitchen.

"Yeah. Remember, I went to pick up that toxicology report from Molly," John replied, a little annoyed that his smooching session with Mary had been interrupted.

"Did Molly seem… you know… strange?"

Mary nudged John's arm. "Go ahead. He'll deduce it out anyway. At least this way is faster."

John sighed. "Fine. But you have to promise not to overreact, Sherlock."

"Me? Overreact? I never overreact. When do I overreact?"

"When _don't_ you overreact?" John asked. "Look, it doesn't matter. Molly's new boss is a little…"

"He's a big bully!" Mary interjected. John squeezed her arm, trying to shut her up, but she just shrugged him off. "He's working the poor girl to death and giving her a hard time in front of the rest of the staff. You should see her. He makes her so nervous that she's sick whenever she has to work the dayshift."

Sherlock was silent. His eyes narrowed to fiery slits and his cheekbones stood out in harsh relief as he locked his jaw. John recognized this expression and sidestepped around Mary, laying a hand on his shoulder. "All right, mate. Just… chill. No throwing anyone out of windows."

"I have to go out," Sherlock replied, pushing past John who tried to step in front of him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," John said. "Besides, we're about to get dinner."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock answered, not really hearing as he tied his scarf. "I'll be back in an hour." John started after him, running down the stairs with his coat in hand, but Sherlock slammed the door in his face and was gone.


	20. Distressing Damsels

**A/N: Here we are. More adventures in childish behavior. I've gotten lots and lots of reviews from both old faithfuls and new fanatics! I'm so glad that all of you are having so much fun with this story! I'm having lots of fun writing it. I think the underlying theme of this chapter and last is bullying is BAD. Oh and a little Sherlolly thrown in. Happy reading!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel, Katie, Doctor Doom... ok, so the people you DON'T already recognize.. those are mine. **

Sherlock stood in the park across the street from Bart's, staring at the back of the building. A cigarette poised between his fingertips offered a tiny ember of light, but beyond that he was hidden by the shadows. It had all clicked in his head when John told him about Molly's new boss and the botched up medical charts. He was indeed a bully and shady, to boot. Bullies always had something hide. Especially when they were about to be found out by those who were infinitely more clever. The previous week, Mike Stamford had mentioned to him in passing that they were having some trouble at the mortuary. They had lost a few bodies only to have them turn up later. He didn't think much about it until someone noticed a strange scar that hadn't been noted on one of the bodies. The body snatching started about the same time as Molly's new boss. Molly's strange behavior started just after she mentioned the mix-ups to Mike. Which didn't necessarily mean that the two were related, but Sherlock was willing to wager that they were.

"Oi! Sherlock!" He turned to see Creed sprinting across the street to meet him. The street kid with the dirty jacket and mohawk hadn't exactly learned the meaning of discretion.

"So much for not drawing attention," he grumbled as the boy approached. "Next time why don't you just borrow a megaphone. That way you can just shout at me from across the street."

"Sorry, mate. You got the payment?" Sherlock sighed and pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet. "Jesus, man. I been standing out 'ere in the cold for hours. Give us a break, wilya?"

Sherlock brandished another note but jerked it away as Creed reached for it. "Tell me what I need to know first." He didn't trust Creed like the others. He was a junkie and Sherlock knew from experience that you never trust a junkie. But he was the only one of his network that was around on such short notice.

"That doctor showed up here about an hour ago. He looked like he was in a hurry. About ten minutes after he arrived, a car drove up and went through the back there. That loading dock."

"Has he gone yet?"

"Nah… he's still up there. That's 'is truck over there." Creed pointed toward a large, unmarked van with blacked out windows parked in the loading dock at the back of the hospital. He stood back with his arms crossed, looking at the money in Sherlock's hand intently. "So… we done 'ere?"

"Not quite," Sherlock replied, pocketing Creed's fee and flicking is cigarette to the ground. He grabbed the kid roughly by the arm and pulled him across the street. When they arrived at the loading dock, Sherlock pushed the kid against the wall. "You stay here. No one else goes in and no one comes out, right?"

"Absolutely not," Creed replied.

Sherlock nodded and went around to investigate the van. It was a hulking beast of a vehicle, circa probably the 1990s. The windows had been painted black, obviously by an amateur, and there were no licensing plates. He tried the back doors and then pulled a set of lock picks from his coat pocket. With a glance over his shoulder, he worked quickly, praying that there was no alarm. It was only a matter of seconds before he was able to open the back of the van and crawl inside. Stacked high on both sides of the cargo bay were industrial looking coolers with locks. "Interesting…" Sherlock mumbled to himself, using his pick to work at the padlock on the cooler nearest him. With a lot of fiddling and a little brute force, Sherlock managed to open the lock and push the chest open. The chest was filled with ice, which he pushed aside, pouring it onto the floor of the van. In the bottom were tightly wrapped plastic packs. He didn't have to unwrap them to tell what they were. The blood gave it away. "Organ theft? Really? Boring…" Sherlock sighed, jumping down from the back of the van. To his surprise, Creed was still standing by the door smoking a cigarette. He started to say something as Sherlock passed, but thought better of it upon seeing his expression.

Once inside the hospital, he made his way toward the mortuary. It was fairly quiet aside from the occasional call over the intercom. There was no one around, making it easier for Sherlock to sneak through the labyrinthine halls. Passing by an office, he could hear voices. He paused, ducking under the windowed door to listen.

_"Look, Markus, everything's under control. Soon it won't even be an issue."_

_"There's too many mistakes, Stephen. Mr. Mueller is starting to get very nervous about our involvement with you. Every viable specimen that's lost is worth thousands. I don't have to tell you how this looks. And by the way, you still owe us…"_

_"There are no mistakes. As soon as I get rid of that particular thorn in my side, things will run much more smoothly. You'll get your money and your specimens and we'll all be very rich. Dr. Barker is down in the lab right now retrieving your first payment." _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Stupid. So they were trying to get rid of Molly for asking too many questions about their little body snatching business. Organs and tissue fetched large prices on the black market. Desperate people were willing to overlook morality in order to save their own lives. He'd better hurry if he was going to intercept them.

**OoOoOo**

It was frigid when Molly rolled out of Sherlock's bed after midnight and suddenly realized that she had to go home. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She had only wanted to be alone for a few minutes. She'd had every intention of getting up and having dinner with everyone else, but evidently Sherlock hadn't woken her, figuring she needed the rest. Speaking of, where was he anyway? She sat up and listened for a moment. Nothing. Molly rose from the bed and padded down the hall toward the sitting room. John and Mary were curled up on the couch watching a movie. They regarded her with a smile.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!" Mary chirped with a wave. "We thought you died in there. There's a container in the fridge with leftovers if you like."

"Oh… no… I should probably go home. I don't have any clothes to wear…" she stammered, still trying to shake the sleep from her eyes. "Where is Sherlock?"

"He left several hours ago. A case or something," John lied.

"Why don't you just stay here, love?" Mary said. "I think I've got some clothes in John's closet you could wear. And it's awfully cold out there."

"No, thanks," she replied, pulling her coat on. "I need to be back at the morgue by 6 in the morning."

Despite their best efforts, John and Mary weren't able to talk her into staying. She arrived at her flat an hour later, wondering how in the world she would ever get back to sleep after her five hour nap. She unlocked the door and crept in quietly, fumbling for the lightswitch. As she flipped it, the lights fluttered to life and then died. Dead bulb. Molly sighed. The perfect ending to a perfect day. She pulled her coat from around her shoulders and attempted to hang it on the rack by the door. It fell to the floor in a heap as she missed the hook. "Fuck it," she murmured. Carefully, she maneuvered through the room, barely able to make out the shapes of the furniture. She hoped that she still had some bulbs left in the cupboard.

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind and pulled off of her feet. She tried to scream, but her attacker's heavy, gloved hand clapped tightly over her mouth. She struggled, kicking and screaming as she was carried across the floor and into the lounge. Her mind ran over every possible scenario and she tried to remember some shred of that self-defense class she'd taken when she first moved to London. "It's awfully late to be coming in by yourself, Miss Hooper," he whispered against the shell of her ear. She immediately recognized Sherlock's voice and breathed a sigh of relief as he set her back on her feet.

"You idiot!" she shouted, smacking him about the shoulders and chest. "You scared me half to death! I thought you were a… sex-crazed maniac!"

"Well… that's up for debate," he teased, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close.

"How did you get in here?" she questioned.

He rolled his eyes. "Your spare key. Obviously."

"How did you know to come here? I was at Baker Street waiting for you."

"It's after midnight and you didn't bring a change of clothes. Lucky guess." He winked and hugged her again, lightly kissing her lips. "And of course, John texted me."

She laid her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat as he led them through the flat and down the hall toward the bedroom. "I'm so glad you're a stalker," she said. As they approached the small room, she hear the gentle dripping of water. "What's going on?"

"Just shush," he replied, taking her bag and tossing it into the chair by the wardrobe. He smiled affectionately as he noticed that she was wearing layer upon layer of wool. "Were you cold this morning, Molly?" he laughed, unbuttoning the shapeless cardigan and pushing it off her shoulders.

"A little." She didn't tell him that layering her clothes had been a habit since childhood. Whenever she was nervous or wanted to hide, she covered herself as much as possible. The morning's impending meeting with Doctor Doom had incited a fashion disaster that consisted of several layers of wool and cotton in addition to her frumpy parka and sensible shoes. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He peeled away each layer, tossing them to the floor behind her in a fluffy pile until she stood before him completely nude. "Uhm…" she mumbled, feeling extremely exposed given that he was still wearing the suit he'd been wearing all day. "You're still…"

"Oh. Yes." He carelessly pulled his jacket and shirt off, throwing them on top of her clothes before leading her into the bath. Her deep, claw-footed bathtub had been filled up with water so hot she could see the steam rising. Sherlock had evidently put some sort of oil in the bath water that had a spicy sweet scent of patchouli and amber. It flooded her senses, making her feel lazy and sexy. "Into the bath with you, Miss Hooper." She did as she was told and stepped into the tub, wincing slightly at the heat. Slowly she lowered herself under the water and lay back against the cool porcelain. She closed her eyes and sighed as her body relaxed. She could almost feel the tension of the day slide off of her skin like the beads of water. After several moments of silence, she began to think that Sherlock had left the room, but then she felt the gentle scraping a loofah across her shoulders and up the back of her neck. Gently, he moved her hair aside and scrubbed the warm suds into her aching and tense shoulders.

"You know…" she sighed. "I still can't figure it out."

"What?" he asked, squeezing the scented water over her chest and arms.

"Why you've decided to be so nice to me," she giggled.

"Because you're letting me." She shivered as he rubbed the loofah across her collarbone and around each breast. The warm beads of water and soap collected around each nipple and dribbled downward. They were swollen and sensitive and Molly couldn't help but sigh as the coarse surface of the sponge lingered. He leaned forward, his chin resting on her shoulder as he whispered in her ear, his soothing and sensual hands never stopping their luxuriant torture of her body. "If something is bothering you, why are you so reluctant to tell me?" he asked.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, really." She looked down, examining the back of his hand and noting that he had cuts on the back of his knuckles.

"Not according to John and Mary."

Molly sighed. "They shouldn't have bothered you with that. Besides, it wouldn't do to have you dropping people off of buildings." She turned and looked at him with a mischievous grin. "That'll kill ya."

"Funny," he replied.

**OoOoOo**

When her mobile rang at 4 am she was sure that it was the old lady next door complaining about the noise. Could she help it if the walls in her bathroom were thin? And who knew that a loofah sponge could be so pleasurable? "Sorry Misses Phillips," she mumbled into the phone.

"Molly? Is that you?"

"Oh! Mike… sorry…" she sighed, snapping awake and sitting up, trying not to jostle the bed and wake Sherlock. "What's the matter?"

"Do you think you can come in a bit early? I know you aren't due in until 6, but I need you."

"Uhm…" she stole a glance at Sherlock, still turned away from her with the blanket pulled over his shoulder. "Sure… I guess so. But where's Dr. Manning?" Just his name tasted like bile in the back of her throat.

"Just… come when you can," he replied, avoiding her question and hanging up quickly.

When Molly arrived, there were several police cars parked out front. Not so unusual for a morgue except for the sheer volume. She walked through the doors of the mortuary on the way to her office when she noticed some familiar faces standing in front of the bank of cold chambers. "Greg? What are you doing here? Has there been a murder or something?"

"Not exactly. We just arrested your new boss."

Molly had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "What? Why?"

"Well, I got a text last night from Sherlock saying we should come to the morgue at Bart's. Nothing too urgent, it said. So we got here a couple of hours ago only to find your boss and his assistant in a cold drawer, bleeding from every visible orifice and straddling a dead body."

"What?!"

"Yeah, along with a couple of cellowrapped organs that had been stolen from corpses or comatose patients for sale on the black market."

"Oh my God…"

"I know, right? When we pulled them out, both men were practically hypothermic and raving about some guy in a long coat that beat the shit out of them. When they woke up, they were locked in a morgue drawer with their _patient_."

**OoOoOo**

"I'd have never suspected it. I really wouldn't. Doctor Doom was a supplier for an international organ smuggling scheme. It's like something out of Shelley," Molly said with a shudder. "The good news is, he's gone for good and I'm the acting chief."

"That's great!" John exclaimed. "Do you think you'll get the promotion?"

"Who knows. But at least I don't have him to worry about anymore." She snuggled against Sherlock as they walked toward the school where Gabriel's friend Katie would be performing. As soon as they approached the building, Gabe's eyes were everywhere and he insisted on being let down from where he'd been riding on his father's shoulders.

"Dad! Let me down! I think I see Katie!"

"All right, but don't run off where I can't see you. It's crowded here." That was an understatement. Children and parents were milling about everywhere. Kids being pummeled with shepherds' crooks, kids being poked in the eyes with the corners of angels' wings, parents shouting for their children to eat their dinner quickly… it was mass hysteria. Just the kind of place that always put Sherlock on edge. But Gabriel was excited about it and it was an opportunity for him to get used to the idea of school. Sherlock cringed. He didn't want to think about it. Not that he would ever admit it, but he liked having Gabriel with him all the time. Mycroft was still adamant that he attend a private school that would ensure placement at a prestigious boarding school in three years, but Sherlock couldn't quite bear the thought of that. He'd gotten used to the kid and would miss him too much if he were gone. Reluctantly, he let Gabriel down and watched as he ran through the crowd toward the little redheaded girl.

**OoOoOo**

"Katie!" Gabriel called out to his friend. She turned and saw him, her face lighting up as she ran toward him.

"Gabriel! I'm so glad you came to my play! I'm singing a solo!" She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

"I told you I was coming," he murmured, blushing deeply from her kiss. "I like your wings," he said, running his fingers along the glittery edges of the angel wings.

"Thanks! My mom made them. It's just pantyhose stretched over a coat hanger. But they're the biggest. I'm the head angel." She smiled proudly.

Just then Gabriel noticed something he had never seen before. Katie was wearing glasses. "You're wearing glasses," he said, his tone questioning.

"Yeah, I have to wear them for school. On the playground I get to take them off. I hate them."

"Why? I think they're pretty," Gabriel said. "Molly wears glasses when she works sometimes. And she's the prettiest lady I know."

"Hey, four eyes! Who's your friend?" Gabriel turned to see an older boy standing near them, a sneering expression on his face.

"Oh no…" Katie sighed. "That's Eli. He's seven. He always picks on me."

"Why?"

She shrugged. Gabriel could tell that she was nervous now. The blush in her cheeks deepened and she shifted from one foot to the other.

"Didn't you hear me, Four Eyes?"

"Leave me alone, Eli!" Katie shouted.

"Is that your boyfriend?" the kid giggled then made kissing noises.

"He's just my friend!" she replied, stomping her foot.

"Four Eyes and Mop Top sittin' in a tree…" the little boy started to chant. Gabriel looked back at Katie and could see that her eyes were stinging with tears that she was refusing to shed. He squeezed her hand tightly and gave her a warm smile.

"It's okay, Katie," Gabriel said. Then he turned around and walked straight up to Eli. The little bruiser was at least a head taller than Gabe and had a pudgy frame to go with it. Gabe didn't say a word and gave no warning before he punched the other kid square in the nose, dropping him like a stone easily. The kid groaned, holding his nose which had started to bleed all over his shepherd robe.

Gabe turned on his heel and offered Katie his arm. "C'mon Katie. My dad's over here."


	21. Present Perfect

**A/N: Sorry this took a while. The chapter's a bit shorter, but it was a natural breaking point, so I figured what the heck. Just a cute fluffy chapter this time. I hope that everyone is enjoying the story so far. I've gotten some amazing reviews from some folks who have been following the story since the beginning and to my surprise- LOTS OF NEW PEOPLE! Thank you so much! Your kindness really is overwhelming. If you don't see another chapter over the weekend, I do apologize. I'm in Hobbit mode this weekend and will probably be writing my pervy little heart out on an original piece. But have no fear, I will do my best to update by Monday. Lots of love! **

**Disclaimer: You know the drill... Gabe is mine. The rest are just borrowed.**

"What on Earth do you buy for women at Christmas?" Sherlock mumbled, mostly to himself as he flipped through newspaper ads. He'd never had to concern himself with such things before. He and Mycroft hadn't exchanged gifts since they were children and with no other family to speak of, it hadn't exactly been a going concern.

"Jewelry," Mary replied simply and without hesitation. "All women love jewelry."

"I've never seen Molly wear any jewelry except those heinous earrings that one time," Sherlock replied. "I don't think she's really a jewelry kind of girl."

"Quite right," Mycroft interjected. Much to Sherlock's chagrin, Mycroft had come by earlier to ask his help on a case and ended up staying for dinner. Gabriel had managed to convince him to sit for a portrait. The child had taken to drawing people and he had finally tired of drawing his father and John. "In Miss Hooper's profession, it doesn't seem prudent to put rings on her fingers."

Sherlock nodded. If ever anyone was going to drop a ring in a dead body, it would be Molly. "Well I obviously can't buy her clothes—I know I'd get it wrong…"

"A book, perhaps?" John offered. "She does love to read."

"I have no idea what sort of book she'd like," Sherlock sighed.

"For someone who notices everything, you really haven't been too observant," Mary giggled, helping John gather dishes from the table.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, screwing his face up in an offended sneer.

"I just mean that Molly has been dropping hints about things she'd like for weeks," Mary teased, looking pointedly at John. "Women do that, assuming you aren't too thick to notice."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"She wants that necklace that's in the window of that jewelry shop on Oxford Street. The one we pass by at least twice a week. The one she even stopped and gawked at yesterday." Mary shook her head and leaned over to John. "You said he was a genius."

"I was obviously distracted," Sherlock huffed.

"She likes that pretty red dress in that shop on the corner. The one that the statue in the window is wearing," Gabriel offered, chewing on his lip as he scrubbed out a mistake with the rubber on his pencil. "She also likes chocolate and pretty pictures and music and eating lunch." Gabriel ticked off an entire list of things that Molly liked, Sherlock staring blankly. How did a five year old know more about her than he did? Gabriel turned his picture around, showing it to Mycroft. "What do you think, Uncle Mycroft?"

"It's perfect, Gabriel," Mycroft replied, visibly tensing as the little boy embraced him. "Thank you. Speaking of gifts, what would you like for Christmas, Gabriel?"

The little boy shrugged. "I dunno… I never really got presents at Christmas before. I guess Father Christmas didn't know where the convent was." Sherlock's chest tightened at hearing Gabriel's words. He tried not to think too hard about the place where his child had spent the first five years of his life. He was sure that the good sisters had done the best they could for Gabriel, but their order wasn't really equipped to deal with children. Given the location of St. Christopher's, if they had sent him to a government supported orphans' home, it would have been all the worse. Several of the homeless kids in his network were products of group homes. Most of them had been ignored, abused or worse. They'd run away to live on the streets, often to lives of drug abuse and danger. In that respect, Gabriel was lucky. Of course, he wasn't unaware of the numerous scars on his child's back and arms. He had only asked Gabriel about them once and it had produced such a reaction that Sherlock was afraid to broach the subject again. Despite how close they'd become, there were a lot of things that Gabriel had yet to reveal about himself. Of course it didn't take a genius to deduce what had happened. Gabe was a sweet and loving little boy. He was also stubborn, willful and hyperactive. The same combination of traits that had earned him numerous thrashings as a child.

"You'll have to make a list then," John said.

"A list?"

"Yeah, you know… a nice, polite letter to Father Christmas and then a list of things you'd like to have. Assuming you've been a good boy all year," John explained.

"Do I have to have been good every day?" Gabe asked. "It's very hard to be good every day."

"Let's hope it's an overall score," Sherlock teased. "And that he doesn't go asking that kid with the bloody nose…"

Mary giggled as she crossed the room and scooped Gabriel up. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. Your father, on the other hand, is likely to get enough coal to bury Baker Street. He's been a very naughty boy."

"…at least according to Molly Hooper…" John mumbled under his breath.

"But how will Father Christmas get my letter?" Gabe asked, fortunately not hearing John's comment. "I don't know his address."

Everyone turned to look at Mycroft. "Oh… well… if you write it, I will ensure that it is delivered to the proper recipient."

Gabriel scrambled out of Mary's grasp and down to the coffee table, pulling his paper tablet and a fat red pencil out of the drawer. He began to write furiously, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. Occasionally he would stop and push his heavy, black curls out of his face. Sherlock's phone buzzed and he stood, stepping over Gabriel and edging around the table to answer it in private.

After several minutes, Gabriel stood up and before Mycroft could stop him, he'd climbed up onto his uncle's knee. "Here. I need some help with the words." He tried passing Mycroft the pencil. "I'll read what it says and you spell it right."

"Uhm… don't you think it would be better to wait for your father?" he asked uncertainly, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides as Gabriel teetered on his perch.

"He'll be on the phone for ages," Gabe complained. "Please?" He shoved the pencil at Mycroft again. Seeing that he had no choice, Mycroft sighed and took it. Gabriel began reading his words, pointing at each one on the page:

_"Dear Father Christmas,_

_My name is Gabriel Holmes and we haven't met before. I used to live at St. Christopher's Convent in Halifax. You must not know where that is because I never got any presents from you at Christmastime. That's ok, though. I got the best present ever when I got to live at Baker Street with my dad and my John. That's in London in case you didn't know. I don't know if you had anything to do with that, but if you did, thanks. I like it here a lot. My dad says that you can be everywhere at the same time like Dr. Who. Is that true? It must be. My dad knows everything. They told me that I had to make a Christmas list to tell what presents I want from you. I didn't know what to put on my list, so I decided to put down the things I hope you will bring for all my family. _

_*My dad- a telescope to look at the stars. _

_*My John- some earphones so he can listen to relaxing music when my dad gets on his nerves._

_* Mary- some new red shoes. They are her favorite things ever._

_*Mrs. Hudson- a new hip. I don't know what that is but she's always saying she wants a new one._

_* Molly- a toothbrush for my house so when she sleeps over with my dad, she doesn't have to brush her teeth with a flannel._

_* Uncle Mycroft- a picture of him and my dad so he can remember that they are brothers and that they love each other._

_* Katie- a red ribbon for her hair. I just think it would look pretty._

_ As for me, I guess I want some clothes, some new crayons and markers or some chocolate. I'd like a real, fire-breathing dragon. My dad says that's impossible because dragons aren't real. I'm not sure I believe him. Or maybe a Cluedo board that doesn't have a hole in it. What I really want is a violin like my dad's so that I can play like him someday. I want to play so bad that sometimes I have to sit on my hands so I remember not to touch Dad's. Do you think that is being naughty? This letter is really long and I'm almost at the end of my paper, so I have to say goodbye. Thank you for reading my list. Oh, and I saw this thing on telly that said there are lots of dogs out there that don't have families. Do you think you could find families for them? That would be nice._

_ Happy Christmas,_

_ Gabe_

Gabriel looked up and took the paper and pencil from Mycroft. "I will sign my name underneath so he knows that I am trying to write like a big kid." He slid off of Mycroft's lap and sat down in front of the table to sign his name in oversized capital letters. When he was done, he handed it off to his uncle. "Did I do it right?"

"Perfectly," Mycroft replied, pocketing the letter just as Sherlock returned. He beckoned to his brother as he went to the door, pulling on his overcoat. "Sherlock, a word?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he followed him out to the landing. "Yes?"

"I was just going to give you the letter that Gabriel wrote. You may find it helpful with your gift-giving endeavors." He held the letter out to his brother, an amused smile as Sherlock looked over the items. "Listen… I've been doing some thinking lately…"

"Don't… it will only complicate things." He sighed. It was much easier to be dismissive of Mycroft then to actually hold a conversation with him. The brothers had gotten so good at ignoring one another that they had no idea how to relate anymore.

"Just let me finish. Why must you be so obstinate all the time?" Mycroft shook his head. "I thought that since Gabriel was here and it was his first Christmas, that we might make an effort to do something special. The summer cottage is just sitting there empty and has been for some time. I'm having it opened up and prepared for a holiday. You and Gabriel may come of course, as well as Miss Hooper. Perhaps even John and Miss Morstan if they desire."

"A Christmas holiday? Really, Mycroft? Did you have a nice bowl of sentiment flakes for breakfast or something?"

"I thought it might be nice, but if you'd rather not spend a week by the sea…" Mycroft turned his nose up, giving Sherlock his classic look of disdain.

"All right, all right… if you insist," Sherlock sighed. "Stop badgering."


	22. Road Rage and Candy Canes

**A/N: Hello, readers! Well, I've been Hobbit-geeking all weekend, but I did manage to come up with something. I was inspired by the road rage getting in and out of the theater. Thanks for all the great reviews! I have to confess that I go back and read them later if I need a pick me up. You all make me smile LOTS! **

"Trust me, it will just be easier to take my car," Molly said, throwing her purse into the boot of her little sedan. "That way we won't have to carry bags all over London."

"I'm not sure I understand this logic," Sherlock grumbled. "Please tell me you don't have illusions that we'll be able to park on the street. We'll have to park in a garage at least six blocks from the shops."

"Just trust me," she sighed. "For once."

She tried to push past him to get to the driver's side, but he blocked her path, sneaking an arm around her waist and pulling her in for a kiss. She tried to pull back, but he held her tight, his tongue playing at the crease between her lips until she accepted it. Their kiss lingered, growing more intense with every passing second until Molly found herself pressed against the car. She almost suggested they call John's mobile and explain that they would be a bit late. Then she felt Sherlock's hand slip into her pocket, stealing the car keys. "I'll drive," he said, pulling away.

Gabriel scampered out the front door, Mrs. Hudson trailing after him with his scarf. "Gabriel, dear! Your scarf! It's cold!" She stopped on the sidewalk, handing the scarf to him. "Sherlock, make him put his scarf on. He'll catch his death."

"Mrs. Hudson, one cannot 'catch their death' from being in the cold. That is a ridiculous myth. People are more ill during the winter months because they spend more time inside in enclosed spaces. The cold has nothing to do with it." He shook his head and looked down at Gabriel. "But do, in fact, put your scarf on." Gabriel rolled his eyes, but did as he was told and climbed into Molly's car.

Sherlock glanced behind him as he pulled away from the curb and into traffic. "Make sure your seatbelt is locked, Gabriel." Molly chirped away in his ear about a case that came into the morgue earlier, but he wasn't really listening. There was a reason why Sherlock had never invested in a car. Driving in London was like driving through a minefield and he detested it. The only thing he hated more was riding with someone else. Cabs didn't count because he was in the back of the car and usually distracted by something else. But if he'd had to sit in the passenger seat while Molly drove slowly and cautiously through the London streets all the way into the suburbs, he'd lose his mind.

"Her skin had these weird black splotches all over. So you know what I was thinking… bubonic plague for sure! I mean, the medic said the old woman's flat was filthy, so infected rats wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility. Anyway, the splotches were dry and flaky, but some of them looked kind of fresh…"

"Molly," Sherlock sighed, screeching to a halt at a stoplight just as it turned red. "I do love you more than a serial murder, so I'm saying this with all the kindness I can muster—shut up." She scrunched up her nose in annoyance, but went silent. When the light turned to green, he peeled off down the street, changing lanes effortlessly while changing gears. He wove in and out of traffic, sometimes with so narrow a margin and with such speed that Molly gripped the armrest and punched an invisible brake with her foot.

"We have to take Oxford and cut over to Regent," Molly sighed as Sherlock passed the turning.

"Rush hour, Molly… too much traffic. We're going to cut through George Street and down Thayer to get to the highway." He barely gave a signal as he turned the corner sharply and slid into the lane. Molly covered her eyes and slid lower in her seat.

Gabriel laughed. "It's like a rollercoaster!" Sherlock smirked. He might be driving slightly erratically just to annoy Molly. He made a mental note to slow down once they got to the highway, otherwise she wouldn't stay the night. Their relationship was new, but already Molly had become proficient in the art of withholding physical affection when he was being a pain. The other day when he'd made a tiny criticism about what he'd deemed "insignificant notes that cluttered up the page," she'd rolled her eyes and then later refused to kiss or touch him after their dinner at Baker Street. Rather, she'd spent the whole night with Gabriel in her lap and showering all of her affection on him.

By the time they reached the parking lot of the shopping centre, Sherlock was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. "If you wanted to walk, why did you bring the car?!" he shouted as a little old lady pulled out in front of him. The mall had a large road that circled around it with several circuits leading in and out of the various store parking lots. Drivers were whipping in and out of traffic, zooming in all directions. He was obviously agitated, slamming on brakes to let overeager drivers into the lane as he cursed at them. With a glance in the rearview mirror, Molly noticed that Gabriel was no longer laughing. He looked tense and unhappy. Molly laid her hand on Sherlock's arm. "Would you please calm down? You're scaring Gabriel."

"I told you I didn't want to drive."

"Then why didn't you let me drive?"

"Because I am certain that we would all die. Slowly, because the speedometer would never have gone above 20. A slow, fiery death…" he grumbled, tearing into the parking garage. A lady on her mobile had to dive out of the way. In Sherlock's defense, she was standing, unmoving, in the middle of the lane. When the car finally came to a halt, Molly was cowering behind her hands. "We're here," he said cheerfully. When Molly got out of the car, she knelt down and kissed the ground dramatically.

**OoOoOo**

"But why do I have to go with the girls?" Gabriel whined. "They're girls!"

"Well you know what they say, mate? Girls… they want to have fun." John chuckled at his own joke.

"Wow… you're dating yourself," Mary sighed. "Come on, Gabe. We'll get hot chocolate inside. Besides, did you ever stop to think that maybe you can't go with your dad and John because they're buying something for you?"

Gabriel seemed to accept this and shrugged. Sherlock knelt down in front of Gabe and pulled his scarf off and helped him unbutton his coat. "Be good. Do _not_ run away from Molly and Mary. Hold one of their hands at all times." He took his wallet from inside his jacket and pulled out a five pound note. "This is yours. Keep it in your pocket and don't spend it on sweets, please." He stood up and passed Molly a fifty pound note. "Don't tell him that he's getting a haircut until you absolutely have to," he whispered.

"All right, meet back at that pizza place on the other end of the mall at 6," John said, kissing Mary's cheek and ruffling Gabriel's hair.

The men walked off and Gabriel took Molly's hand. As they walked along, Gabriel was fascinated by the lights and noise of the place. Everything was festive and Christmasy. It immediately made him want to smile. Gold, silver and red decorations were everywhere. He could smell a warm cinnamon, nutty scent that made his stomach growl. "Can't we get some hot chocolate?" he asked as they passed a small stand.

"Of course," Molly said. "But first, we have to go make your appointment."

"My what?"

"Your dad wanted us to take you and have your hair cut first," Molly said.

Gabriel groaned. He started to protest, but then he remembered the last time he'd made a fuss at the shops. Besides, Katie had told him that Father Christmas would be watching all the time now, since it was so close to Christmas. "Do I have to?" he finally asked.

"I'm afraid so, kid," Mary replied, taking his other hand. "But you can have it cut however you want. And afterward, if you want, we can go see Father Christmas."

"See him?" His eyes went wide. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of seeing the jolly old man in the flesh.

"Yeah, you know… tell him what you want," Molly said.

"I thought that's what the list was for." Gabriel was not sure about this. Big Time Lords in oversized red coats and big boots on telly was one thing, but coming face to face with such a person might not be such a great idea. He probably knew about all of the naughty things Gabriel had done. Even the ones his dad didn't know about: sneaking out of his room at night to watch Dr. Who, climbing up on the counter to get the chocolate biscuits off the top of the refrigerator, "borrowing" his dad's magnifier to see if you really could burn ants with the sun. The list could go on and on.

"Well yes, the list is good. But some kids like to see him up close," Mary went on. "You don't have to if you don't want to, Gabe."

They arrived at the hair salon and he looked up at them nervously. The salon was bright and crowded. Most of the chairs were occupied with women having their hair blown dry, chopped up and one poor lady who had aluminum foil sticking out of her head. "This place is for ladies," he huffed.

"It's for everyone," Molly replied, pulling his coat off and gesturing for him to sit down in the waiting area. "Trust me. You'll feel lots better with some of that hair cut off. It's all in your face."

"You probably won't have headaches as much," Mary continued. "Your hair is so thick that it probably makes your head hurt sometimes." Gabriel shrugged, deciding to keep his mouth shut.

"We have an appointment for Gabriel," Molly said to the woman behind the counter.

She checked the appointment book and smiled. "Of course! Right this way." Molly took Gabriel's hand and led him around the counter to the back of the salon where a pretty girl with a hot pink Mohawk was waiting for him.

"You must be Gabriel. I'm Max," she said, offering her hand. "Wow… you've got quite a head of hair, kiddo."

Gabe was fascinated by her hair. "So do you," he exclaimed, his big blue eyes widening as he watched her. "How did you get it to do that?"

"Raw talent," she said. "So what do you want to do to it?"

"I want it just like yours! Well… except for the pink part."

Molly stepped between them. "Uhm… I'm not sure that's what your dad meant by getting a haircut, Gabe," she laughed nervously.

"You said I could get it cut however I wanted," he argued.

"Well yes, but…"

Max laughed. "I have a solution. We'll cut it shortish on the sides and in the back, but leave it really long and curly on the top so you'll have like a curly faux-hawk kind of thing. Then if his dad doesn't like it, you can just blend it in when you blow dry." She winked at Molly.

**OoOoOo**

"Are you sure all this is such a good idea," John sighed. "I mean, Gabriel will think that he has to get everything on his Christmas list. He'll be a little spoiled, don't you think?"

"Like he isn't now," Sherlock replied as they stood in the music shop, waiting for the salesperson to return and help them. "And he's never had Christmas before, John. He's only ever gotten one present in his whole life. I think a little spoiling might do him some good. Besides, he's an agreeable child with a kind heart. I think he'll survive."

"You're probably right," John sighed.

"If it makes you feel any better, you can put your name on some of the things." He'd had the same thoughts himself, but decided to discard them when he thought back over the past few months with Gabriel. Sure the little boy had been mischievous and at times defiant, but overall he was a great kid. And he had brought something to Baker Street that Sherlock hadn't even realized was missing until now.

The salesperson returned from the back room with two small cases. "These are the smallest we have, Mr. Holmes," he called, opening up both cases on the counter. Both violins were exquisitely crafted. One made of a deep, cherry colored wood but the other was jet black.

"What is this one? Is it plastic?" Sherlock's nose scrunched up in a look of disapproval. Everyone knew that a plastic violin had a terrible sound. They were essentially toys.

"No no… it's carbon fiber. Perfect for little ones just learning. They're virtually indestructible and they have a great sound quality." He handed Sherlock the bow. "Feel free to try it out if you like. Sherlock took up the violin and he and John giggled a little at how small it was. He played a few impromptu bars of his own composition.

"Hmm… the sound quality is rather good." He picked up the other and tried it, but before he began to play, he noticed several scrapes and nicks in the body of the instrument. "I'm going to assume that you salvaged this one from some kind of accident?" Sherlock asked the salesperson.

"Well… I suppose it is a little banged up…"

"I'll take the carbon fiber one," he said, not even bothering to strum the strings of the wooden violin.

John leaned in as the clerk began packing up the instrument and ringing it up. "Sherlock… did you get a look at the pricetag on that thing? It was nearly three times the cost of the wooden one."

"What difference does that make?"

"Well… I mean… Gabe's a kid. What if he loses interest? And even if he doesn't, he's going to outgrow that pretty quick. That's a lot of money, Sherlock!" he hissed.

"Why are you so worried about it?" Sherlock chuckled and handed his card to the clerk.

Five minutes later they were walking out of the music shop with Gabriel's violin along with several other bags full of their Christmas shopping. John wondered how they got through everyone on the list so quickly, but Sherlock showed him where he'd been taking photos and cataloguing items for everyone on his phone for weeks. "I never go shopping without knowing what I'm going for, John," he said, rolling his eyes as if his level of freakish organization were the most normal thing in the world. "Now, I have one more thing to get before we have to meet the others."

**OoOoOo**

"What the hell are we doing, Molly?" Mary hissed as Molly pulled her down the street and around the corner from the shopping centre. "Gabriel is still in the salon."

"I have to go to this shop. It won't take long. And I didn't want Gabriel to see because he's terrible at keeping a secret." Mary had the distinct feeling that she was being dragged to that dark magic shop from Harry Potter. A block down from the mall was a tiny shop with dim light coming through the window. Instead of a Christmas display in the window, there was a Yule display, complete with a Yule log with candles, mistletoe and evergreen boughs hung in the windows with sprigs of holly. As they passed through the door, there was a cheerful chime and the scent of burning leaves and cinnamon obliterated their senses. _Outré_ the sign over the door read. The shop was warm and inviting, but cluttered. All sorts of strange exhibits and artwork adorned the walls. The shelves were full of unusual antiques that included Victorian mourning jewelry, embalming kits and taxidermy.

"Jesus, Molly… what are you buying from here?"

Molly didn't have time to answer, as the shopkeeper came in from the back. A petite African lady with the most peculiar green eyes and long braided hair greeted them. "Aah… Dr. Hooper! I was wondering if you were going to make it today."

"Of course! Is it ready?"

"Just as you requested," the lady replied, embracing Molly gently and smiling to Mary. She went to a large cupboard and brought out an item covered in a piece of linen. "I was able to come in a bit under your budget. The finishing didn't take as much as I thought."

"That's great!" The lady set the item on the counter and uncovered it. It was a human skull on a stand, but the pieces had been taken apart and placed on steel rods so that the skull could be opened up and the insides examined. "Oh God, Ada… it's beautiful!"

The woman smiled and hugged Molly again. "I'm so glad you like it. Do you think your friend will?"

"Most definitely. It's perfect!" She rummaged in her purse and found her credit card, handing it over.

As they were walking back toward the mall, Mary couldn't keep her questions inside any longer. "What in the world is that thing? And who is it for?"

"An exploded human skull. Kind of an art slash science experiment. It's for Sherlock, of course."

"I should have known."


	23. Christmasy Coincidences

**A/N: Ok, can you tell that Christmas shopping is pressing on my mind? It's crazy! Anyway, another chapter for you, kittens! I hope you like this one. You know, someone mentioned in a comment about Molly being pregnant. I hadn't really thought about that and it seems kind of strange at this point. I'll think on that for a while. But no, at this moment she is NOT. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Gabe and the hairdresser.**

"You cannot be serious." John sighed as he edged around the dark, dusty cabinet in the tiny antique shop. "This does not look like the sort of place where you'd get a romantic gift for your girlfriend. For God's sake, Sherlock… there's skulls on the wall."

"Outré is exactly the sort of place to get a romantic gift for someone like Molly. Ada specializes in unusual items and Molly is an unusual woman."

"Skulls do not say, 'Hey, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'" John rasped, his grip tight on Sherlock's arm. "They don't even say, 'Hey, I'd like a shag in the corner with you.' More like 'Hey, lady, can you help me find my dog and oh by the way, I think I'll use your skin to make a woman suit!'"

Sherlock chuckled. "For a soldier, you really are kind of squeamish. And besides, I'm not taking you with me to buy the 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you' present." Sherlock paused. Was that what his special gift said? Was that what he wanted it to say? He and Molly had only been a _thing_ for little more than a month, but they'd known one another for years. Shouldn't he know by now if he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? Were they _in love_? In love. What did that even mean? He supposed he loved Molly. He'd never said so, but shouldn't she know that? Shouldn't his actions tell her that? And honestly, what was the difference between being _in_ love and loving someone. By definition, love was an affection for another person, but going by that reasoning, he loved John too. And Mrs. Hudson. The only person he knew, without a single question about its nature, that he loved was Gabriel. That love was purely instinctual and, for lack of a better term, part of his soul. When he looked at Gabriel, he could see himself. Without giving even the slightest pause, if Gabriel needed his heart, he'd pull it from his own chest with a melon scoop. Perhaps that was the gauge. He guessed he'd done as much to save John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade from Moriarty. He had, essentially, given his life to save theirs. Would he pull out his own heart to save Molly's life? The answer was yes. Without a second thought. But was that sexual love or friendly? Some odd combination of both? When they were together, alone in the dark, he definitely felt something. There was an ache in his chest that had at first been unpleasant, but then it settled to a warmth that would come whenever she was in the room. And of course, when they had sex, he did feel that pull in his chest when she whimpered his name against his ear or stroked his hair. A pull that he hadn't felt when he'd had sex with Irene. The only thing he'd felt as he buried himself deep within Irene had been physical satisfaction. They'd had sex four times over the course of that night and by the last time, he'd found himself thinking about some case or how he might manipulate the situation to draw out Moriarty. Whenever he was with Molly, he could think of nothing but her and how he might better bring her the pleasure she'd denied herself for so long by waiting on his stupid self. Suddenly, he could feel himself slipping further into his mind palace as he followed his tumbling thoughts down the rabbit hole.

"Sherlock?"

Upon hearing his name, he snapped out of it, shaking his head and staring at John, for a moment not recognizing his face. "I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"

John didn't get a chance to reply as a young woman with long braids, dark skin and impossibly green eyes came out from behind the counter. "Mr. Holmes," she said, embracing him. John cocked an eyebrow at the familiar gesture, half expecting Sherlock to push the woman away. Instead he returned the hug warmly.

"Ada, it's so nice to see you."

"You as well. Especially when you're out and about, not lurking around in corners." Ah, so she knew him when he was technically dead. "I assume you've come to pick up the item we spoke about on the phone."

"I did."

"And you agree on the price? I know it's a bit steep…"

"I told you that money was of little consequence." Sherlock winked and pulled his wallet from his jacket again as she moved behind the counter.

Ada nodded and pulled a small, black leather case from a shelf behind her. When she opened it up, there was an assortment of mean looking tools fastened inside. Scissors, needles of all sizes, strangely curved blades. "I have the authenticity papers as well. This particular piece is from the mid 1860s."

"What in Hell is that?" John asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's an antique embalming kit. Mortuary workers and doctors would use them to perform early post-mortems and funeral preparations."

"And this is what you're getting Molly for Christmas?"

"This is one of the things I'm getting Molly for Christmas, yes." He looked up at Ada and smiled. "I'll take it," he said, handing over his card once more. John could only shake his head.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel sat in the chair watching curiously as Max snipped and clipped at his curly hair. She smelled nice. He noticed every time she leaned over him to get another set of clippers. Kind of like vanilla and coffee. She wasn't like anybody else he'd seen before and he was curious. "Did somebody draw on you?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Oh, you mean my tattoos?" she asked.

"I can see part of it on your neck. And then on your arm. Does it come off?"

"Nope. It's there til I die." She gave him a wink. "You're a cute kid. Is that your mom that brought you in?"

"Not really. She's my dad's friend. I guess his girlfriend." He shrugged. "She sleeps at our house sometimes, but I don't think they're really sleeping."

Max smiled and continued snipping at his hair. "You don't think so?"

"Nope. It doesn't sound like it anyway."

"What does it sound like?"

"Like they're fighting. But then I always hear Molly giggling, so they must not be fighting."

Max blushed deep purple. "Oh." She bit her lip, but Gabriel could tell she was trying not to laugh. He wondered why. Did he say something funny? "So why are you cutting this beautiful hair of yours?"

"My dad says it's out of control. I don't know what that means. I mean, it's still attached to my head."

"Well I know girls that would kill to have hair like yours."

"Why? I hate it," he replied, scrunching his nose up at the idea.

"Because it's so thick and curly. Did you get it from your mom or your dad?"

"My dad. I've never seen my mom. She's dead."

Max blushed again. "Oh… I'm sorry, kid."

"It's ok. I didn't know her or anything. I just came to live with my dad a couple of months ago. I hadn't seen him before either, but he's pretty nice. He loves me."

"Well it would be impossible not to love you. You're pretty darn adorable. Even though I bet you're a little demon sometimes." Gabriel shrugged again, not really sure what she meant by 'demon.' "So where did you live before?"

"I lived at this convent out in the woods. The sisters at St. Christopher's took care of me."

"Wicked," she replied.

"Not really. Most of them were mean to me. The Mother Superior used to hit me when she thought I was being bad. She had this thin stick thing that she used to hit me with. I still have some scars on my back from it."

Max had stopped cutting and gaped at him as he told this story. "No one stopped her doing that?"

"No… why would they? She said it was good for me. That it would push the devil out. And it was only when I was bad. Mostly they just ignored me. Sometimes that was worse."

"How were you bad?"

"Well one time, I was in the chapel while they were having church, and the priest started talking about those guys on the horses at the pock-lips and I got so scared that I started crying real loud. Then this other time, I went with some of the sisters to the market and it was so loud! All these people were shouting and moving around. It hurt my ears, so I put my hands over my hears and screamed that everybody should be quiet. Some days I would get so bored that I would just run through the sanctuary and I got in big trouble for that once because I knocked over a statue of an angel."

"That doesn't sound too bad." She started cutting again, patting his shoulder gently. "But it sounds like you live in a great place now."

"Yeah. I love living with my dad and my John."

"Your John?" she laughed.

"Yeah. He's my dad's best mate. He shares the flat with us, but I think he's probably going to marry Mary soon. That's the other lady that came in with me. I wonder if he'll move in with Mary or if Mary will move in with us. It's already so crowded when Molly and Mary are both sleeping over. Oh and there's Mrs. Hudson. But she lives downstairs."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yeah, she's dad's landlady. She is not the housekeeper! But she watches me sometimes and makes dinner and the best chocolate biscuits."

Max grinned. "That sounds nice." She pulled the smock from around Gabe's shoulders and brushed him off. There you are, Gabriel. All done." Gabriel stared at his reflection in the mirror. He reached up and touched his hair like he couldn't believe it was really his. The sides were cut close, but it was longer on the top and the curls tumbled to the side and over his forehead stylishly. She had even made some of the strands shorter so that the curls piled up on top of one another. His eyes looked even more enormous than they had before and his cheekbones stood out like his father's. In fact, he had never looked more like Sherlock than he did right now. "Do you like it?"

"I love it!" he exclaimed. He leapt out of the chair and threw his arms around Max's waist. "Thank you!" he said, hugging her tightly.

"Wow… you're welcome!" she said, joining in his excitement. "You know… you look that guy from the news. The guy that's on Crimewatch all the time with the silly hat. The one that faked his death… what is his name…" Max thought for a moment. "I can't remember. Anyway, he's pretty cute. And so are you." She left a juicy lipstick print on Gabe's cheek and sent him on his way.

**OoOoOo**

"Gabriel, you really don't have to do this if you don't want to," Molly said, kneeling down beside him as they stood in the line to see Father Christmas. The line that stretched across the mall and around the large fountain in the center. The kid looked genuinely worried. He'd already fastened his hands over his ears at all the noise in the place: kids screaming, elves with their high pitched laughter, a movie trailer on the giant telly overhead with a loud, growling voice, it was a lot of stimulation, Molly had to admit. But he'd seemed determined. That was the thing about Gabriel, he might be scared, but he was going to have the experience at least once so he knew what there was to be scared of.

They'd been walking through the mall, coming back from the bookstore where Molly and Mary had helped him purchase a book about the solar system for his dad. It even had a pop up that showed the Earth going around the sun to remind his dad if he forgot. That's when Gabe saw the crowd for Father Christmas. He'd insisted that they get in the queue to see him. "I got something I want to ask him," was all he'd say. So there they stood, Molly constantly looking down at her watch, knowing that Sherlock and John would be waiting for them in front of the pizza kitchen.

Finally, it was Gabriel's turn to go up the tiny steps to the enormous chair on which Father Christmas was perched. The elf things were actually more frightening than the man himself. They looked nothing like the tall, thin creatures with long blonde hair from the movies. These elves were short and round with enormous foam ears and crazily cheery voices. They laughed in a way that was almost taunting as they pulled him up the stairs. Gabriel looked back over his shoulder at Molly and Mary who waved at him reassuringly. He took a deep breath and turned back around, prepared to spit his question at Father Christmas just as fast as he could. And then, he was face to face. Suddenly he was very hot and he was focused on the man's mouth as he shouted a jolly greeting at him. He wore green robes and a wreath of holly on his head. His long white beard was so fluffy that almost obscured everything but his eyes.

"Hello, little one. What's your name?" the man asked him.

Gabriel froze. He couldn't remember his name. Or his question. All he knew is that he wanted to get the Hell out of there. Quickly. He turned to run back down the tiny, candy cane steps. That was when his boot slipped on the fluffy fake snow. Amazingly, he didn't take out any other children as he took a header down the steps and into the enormous Christmas tree display below.

"Gabriel!" Molly and Mary shrieked in unison, running over to him. "Oh, my darling," Molly cooed. "Are you all right? Can you move?"

Gabriel looked up to see that the entire group was standing over him, including some of the children who had been waiting in the queue. He tried to stand up, but pain exploded in his arm and radiated down into his fingertips and up into his shoulder. He didn't want to cry in front of all these people, but the pain was excruciating. "Molly," he whined. "I can't move my fingers."


	24. Broken Bones Suck at Christmas

**A/N: A shortish chapter here. But still fun. I thought you'd all want to know what happened to our little Gabriel. As usual I had some amazing reviews and I do hope that I've PMed each of you and told you how much I appreciate your continued support. You all rock my socks! Thanks for sticking with this story! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.**

"I think I'll be okay, Daddy… we can go home now." Gabriel forced a smile, trying to pretend that everything was fine and that his arm wasn't really broken. Though there was a mountain of evidence to the contrary: his arm was black and blue, swollen and visibly displaced. And then there was the matter of the excruciating pain.

Sherlock smiled and cradled the little boy on his lap, careful not to jostle the injured arm. "I think we need to let the doctor look at it, Gabe."

"John's a doctor. Why can't he fix it?"

"He doesn't have all the special equipment that he would need to fix it." He brushed Gabriel's hair back from his eyes gently as he snuggled closer. "I like your hair," he commented, noticing the shorter, punky haircut. "Do you like it?"

Gabriel nodded, pushing his thumb into his mouth again. He instinctively tried to raise his arm to grasp at Sherlock's shirt, but as he moved it, the dull throb of pain became a burning lightning bolt that drew a scream from him. "Owww…Daddy, it hurts…" he cried, pressing his face against Sherlock's chest. His sobs were heavy and loud, shaking his little body. Sherlock curled his arms around his child, rocking him soothingly and whispering words of comfort in his ear. With every whimper, he felt more and more helpless. Even when Gabe had been so sick, he'd felt pretty in control of the situation. There was something he could do to make it better. But right now, none of his clever deductions or study could do a damn thing to take his child's pain away. It gave him a profound feeling of sadness and rage. On the way over, as Molly was sitting in the back seat of the car, holding Gabriel and sniveling, he'd had a terrible urge to reach back and slap her. Not because he blamed her for Gabriel's injury, but because she kept apologizing for it. And then, of course, he wasn't good when people were crying. People that he cared about, anyway. And in the car he had both of them sobbing in his ear. A lump had risen in the back of his throat and for a moment he was afraid that he'd cry himself. And that made him irrationally angry.

"I know it does, Gabe. In a minute the doctor will come in and give you something for it."

"You think he'll give me a shot?" Gabe sniffled. His eyes blazed with a new worry.

"It's a possibility. But that's the least of your worries. What difference will it make if it makes the pain in your arm go away?"Gabriel's head dropped back to his father's shoulder, looking miserable. When the doctor came in, finally, he buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"So… Gabriel. What have you done to yourself?" the doctor asked with that distracted cheerfulness that ER doctors always had. When the boy didn't reply, the doctor offered his hand to Sherlock. "I'm Dr. Kinsey. I'm the pediatric orthopedist." Sherlock shook the doctor's hand, unable to stop himself from cataloguing everything he could see: American, lived in the United Kingdom for at least fifteen years, married, mid-thirties, definitely posh judging by his wristwatch but hasn't been for long, judging by his shoes. His wife is obviously the old money part of the equation. That's why they're still married, despite his casual affair with the nurse who kept eyeing him from the doorway.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied.

"I thought you looked familiar!" he exclaimed, shaking his hand more vigorously. "The genius detective guy that faked his own death! That's awesome! How did you do it?"

"I could tell you but I'd have to kill you," Sherlock replied cooly. "In the meantime, my kid is broken."

"Oh you have a kid? Interesting." Sherlock couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. If he weren't so worried about Gabe, he'd probably have verbally annihilated the poor man for asking him such an idiotic question. Obviously he had a kid. The doctor smiled and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. "Hey buddy. Mind if I take a look at your arm?"

"Yes," was Gabriel's curt reply as he glared at the doctor.

"Gabe, let him look at your arm," Sherlock said, trying very hard not to smirk at his child's bristly reply. Gabriel turned his face away, but let the doctor approach and unwrap Molly's handiwork. As soon as they realized that Gabriel's arm was broken, visibly so, Molly had rushed into the pharmacy and used tissue boxes and gauze to set the break until they could get to the hospital.

"Well someone was pretty quick and splinted his arm really well," Dr. Kinsey commented.

"Doctor Molly wrapped up my arm," Gabriel mumbled.

"Who is Doctor Molly?"

"She's my dad's friend. She's a doctor too, but she works on dead people."

"Oh I see," Dr. Kinsey chuckled. "Well, she did a nice job. Probably kept you out of surgery tonight." He examined Gabriel's arm, moving it gently until he screamed. "Okay, Gabriel, okay. I won't move it anymore."

"Can you not give him something for his pain?" Sherlock asked impatiently, rubbing Gabriel's back in an attempt to soothe him. "It took a while to get here and then they kept us waiting out there for half an hour. He's obviously in excruciating pain. Do you think perhaps we could sedate him or something before attempting to move his arm?"

"Oh, yeah… absolutely." The doctor scribbled something on his chart. "We'll need to get an x-ray, but from the looks of it, he snapped it pretty good. It's not through the skin, so that's good. Once we know where the break is and how bad it really is, we'll be able to do a reduction and get it set. The good news is, he's a healthy kid, so it should only take about six weeks in that cast." He smiled again and patted Gabe on the head. "I'll just go get that pain medicine for him and then we'll get him fixed up."

**OoOoOo**

"He's going to kill me." Molly sighed miserably as she sat in the waiting room with Mary and John. "I mean, it's not as if I wrecked his car or knocked his microscope off the table. I broke his child."

"Molly, I'm sure he's not going to be angry. It could have happened to anyone. If Sherlock had been standing right there, it wouldn't have made any difference," Mary said. She patted her friend on the back in an attempt to offer some comfort. The poor girl had been a wreck since it happened, convinced that Sherlock would be angry that she had let his child break his arm. She had cried so much in the car on the way over to the Emergency, that Gabriel had leaned over to say "Don't cry, Doctor Molly. I'll be ok."

"He'll probably be thanking you because it isn't worse," John said. "Your quick thinking probably saved the kid a couple of hours in orthopedic surgery."

"I'm so stupid. I should never have let him go up there by himself. I knew he was scared!"

"So did I, Mols," Mary said. "Even if he'd been sober as a judge, he could have slipped on that fluff. That's why they have those elves to walk the kids up the steps. He just freaked and slipped. There's nothing anybody could have done to prevent it."

Molly sniffled, blowing her nose on John's offered tissue again. "I just hope Sherlock will see it that way."

As if saying his name was a summoning, Sherlock strode into the lobby with a very sleepy looking Gabriel on his hip. The tiny boy had a large red cast on his arm, fastened to his side with a sling. His cheeks were red and tear streaked and his eyes puffy. He laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder, sucking his thumb and looking much younger. Molly rose from her seat and went to them, kissing Gabriel's cheeks over and over. "Oh Gabe! I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay, Doctor Molly," he sighed, his speech slow and clumsy. "I fell down."

"Yes you did, you poor thing." She stroked her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. Of course it appeared that the pain medication was doing a good job of that already. His eyelids were heavy and he kept falling asleep, unable to focus on anything. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Molly cried. "I should have been watching him more closely."

"That's ridiculous, Molly. He's a little boy. Little boys fall down. I think I'd broken every bone in my body by the time I was eighteen. And the orthopedist in there said that you kept him from hours of painful surgery with steel rods and pins."

John and Mary rose to coo over Gabriel. "I told you, Molly," John said, ruffling Gabriel's hair. He reached for Gabriel, taking him from Sherlock so that he could go and sign the necessary forms for discharge. "Come on, mate. We'll just sit here and wait for the nurse to say you can go home." Gabriel nodded, still completely out of it.

Molly linked her arm with Sherlock's as they walked toward the counter. "I'm so sorry, really. I…"

Sherlock turned and gave Molly a stern look. "Would you stop apologizing? It wasn't your fault." He took her face between his hands and pressed a kiss to her mouth. "Everything is fine. It's over and done with."

She nodded and snuggled against his side. To her relief, he put an arm around her waist, stroking the small of her back with his fingertips as they stood in the queue. "How bad is it, anyway?"

"Not too bad. It snapped pretty clean. The bone was only a little out of alignment, no small thanks to the good job you did of splinting the break."

Molly shrugged. "Anyone could have figured that out. I mean, I normally work on dead people."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Hooper," he said, kissing her forehead.

"Is Gabriel in much pain?"

"Not right now," Sherlock laughed. "You could set off firecrackers in his nostrils right now and he probably wouldn't notice. They gave me a prescription for liquid Codeine if he needs it, but hopefully once what they gave him tonight wears off, he'll be okay with just paracetamol."

"What did they give him in there?"

"When they did the reduction, they didn't mess around. They gave him a shot of morphine. He was asleep by the time they actually got ready to reset the bone. I think the x-ray scared him more than the actual bone set. Of course he'll probably throw up all over the flat later."

**OoOoOo**

It's funny how things that seem to be so horrible in the moment, can turn out to be the best thing ever. Sherlock and Molly sat side by side on Sherlock's bed with Gabriel between them. He was coming out of his morphine haze and luckily had not needed the bin that Sherlock had put beside the bed in case of nausea. The doctor had said to give him a dose of the codeine syrup before he slept, if for no other reason than to keep the boy still. Getting him undressed had been a chore that involved many tears and a pair of scissors, but all was calm and quiet now. Gabriel sighed contentedly, glad to feel safe and secure. They had started out reading to him, but Gabriel had insisted that since he was getting to sleep in his dad's bed for once, he should get to watch telly. Sherlock had grudgingly obliged, turning on a Batman cartoon.

"Gabriel, aren't you sleepy yet?" Sherlock sighed.

"Not really," he replied with a yawn. "I think Doctor Molly's already asleep."

Sherlock glanced beside him. "I think you're right."

"Dad?"

"Yes?" Sherlock could feel his own eyelids getting heavier.

"I think Doctor Molly should come live with us."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. Katie said you could just marry Doctor Molly and then she could be my mom. Is that how it works?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Sort of."

"Katie's daddy married her mom when Katie was really little. She had a different mom when she was born, but that lady died when she was having Katie."

"I see."

"So Katie's mom is really her stepmom. But she calls her mom. She said the only problem is that now her mom and dad have a new baby. But I don't think that would be so bad. I think I'd like having a little sister."

"Gabriel," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, Daddy?"

"Go to sleep."


	25. The Perfect Gift

**A/N: Short chapter again. But this is just kind of where the natural breaking point was. I promise I'll reward you with a longer chapter later. Maybe I'll get inspired and actually post the next chapter tonight. You never know...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel.**

"Do I have to wear this sling?" Gabriel whined as they climbed into the cab. "It makes my arm hurt."

"Your arm will hurt worse when you bang it on something," Sherlock said, pulling the seatbelt around Gabriel's body and fastening it tightly.

"I thought the place we were going was just a couple of blocks around the corner," he sighed. Gabriel had been very whiny all day. The paracetamol was taking the edge off of the pain in his arm, but it still ached, making him weepy and irritable. Sherlock had ignored three potential cases that morning in favor of taking care of Gabriel and _that_ was making him irritable. Not to mention that he was nervous about buying this gift. He had already bought Molly a few things other than the mortician tools that no one knew about: the dress she wanted along with a matching set of frilly underthings to wear with it, a small box of chocolate truffles shaped like anatomically correct hearts (signed from Gabe) and tickets for the two of them to see the symphony on New Year's Eve. All of them were things he'd been assured that she would like, but his final gift for her was something more personal.

"It is, but it's raining so we're taking a cab," he sighed. "18 Oxford," he barked at the cabbie. The traffic was horrendous, but he couldn't be bothered with paying attention at the moment. He checked his mobile to make sure that he hadn't received any last minute messages from the jeweler. The old man had promised it would be done today. Gabriel sighed, sensing that his father was not interested in talking. For a moment, Sherlock felt a bit guilty for pulling the silent treatment on his child, but today was one of those days that he needed to be in his own head.

When he'd gone to the jewelry store on Oxford Street weeks ago, he'd intended to buy Molly the necklace in the window that she'd been eyeing since right around the time Gabe had come to Baker Street. Once he got there, he realized that the necklace was not nearly worthy of her. The gold was of little weight and the ruby that adorned the clichéd little heart charm was so small that one could barely see it. It was pretty, but not radiant. Molly deserved radiant. In fact, none of the jewelry on display was radiant and when Sherlock grumbled about it, the old man behind the counter mentioned that he could make "whatever Monsieur desired." He'd thought about it for a several moments. What sort of jewel would perfectly convey his feelings for her? Diamonds were dull and tended to send a message he wasn't quite ready for. Rubies and emeralds were common. Everyone had ruby or emerald necklaces. Expense wasn't much of a factor, but he didn't want her to be afraid to wear it in public. Then, something strange caught his eye. It was in a case at the back of the shop, all by itself. The most beautiful set of earrings. Even Sherlock, who didn't think beautiful women needed to adorn themselves with silly ornaments, had to admit that they were beautiful. Two peacock colored pearls set in swirls of platinum. As he moved closer to them, he could see that they were so changeable. In one light they appeared quite blue. In another they were green and from still another angle, they looked almost silvery black. They were the perfect jewel to highlight the surprising and understated beauty of his pathologist. But alas, Molly didn't wear earrings. The old man had noticed him staring and offered to pull them out. "Those are beautiful, but they aren't quite what I'm looking for," he'd said. The old man had nodded and brought out a small chest with the cultured pearls in every hue.

"Very expensive," he'd explained. "Some of these were cultured more than a seventy-five years ago. The peacock colored ones are the most rare and most expensive. If you like, I can fashion them into whatever setting Monsieur might want." While the old man waited on another customer, Sherlock had drawn a sketch in his notebook of what he thought might be a perfect necklace. Thin swirls of platinum that would wrap around her throat and curl down to nestle in the top of her cleavage, but never meeting. Not like an ordinary necklace that would encircle her neck. The design looked like smoke and inside each plume, eight in total, would be one of the old man's unusual treasures. One pearl for every year he had wasted.

He told the cabbie to wait when they arrived at the jewelry store and Sherlock helped Gabriel out of the seat. They hurried across the street and into the tiny shop. Gabriel was amazed by all of the shiny trinkets and Sherlock reminded him brusquely not to touch anything.

"Monsieur Holmes!" the old man called, shaking his hand. "You have come to pick up your piece?"

"Assuming it's ready," he replied.

"Of course! I already have it boxed for you. I know you are anxious to see it. And I must say, it is probably the most beautiful and most unique custom piece I've ever done." He pulled a deep red velvet box from under the counter and placed it on the glass case. Sherlock was careful as he pulled it toward himself and opened the box carefully. Gabriel gasped upon seeing it and Sherlock smiled. In this light the color of the pearls mirrored his own eyes. The necklace was extravagant, but not gaudy. The platinum was not shiny, but looked almost smoky so as to not detract from the pearls. "I did not shine up the metal too much, as I don't think the pearls need anything to compete." It was a solid piece, more of a sculpture than a necklace. "The measurements you gave me were very precise. It should fit your lady friend like a glove, Monsieur. But if it does not, you might bring it back and…"

"No…it's perfect."

**OoOoOo**

"Are you sure about this, John? I mean… my mother always said that you should never invite another living thing into somebody's house without asking." Mary looked worried as they stood in the lobby of the veterinarian's office.

"Well, it is my house too, remember."

"Yes, but Sherlock does live there. And he's not really a… pet sort of person."

"We thought he wasn't a child sort of person either. And anyway, the dog isn't for him, its for Gabe." John shook his head, unable to believe that she wasn't as excited about this idea as he was. Every little boy needed a dog. And it seemed to be fated, even. Yesterday, a woman from the animal rescue had come in for an allergy shot and was talking to John about one of their rescue missions. A few weeks before, they'd found a woman in Devon who was running a puppy mill out of her tiny flat. They had rescued ten puppies being kept in cages in her attic. They were malnourished, dirty and sickly by the time the animal people had gotten there and for a couple of the dogs it was already too late. But most had lived and were currently residing in the shelter awaiting adoption. "And when she told me that story about how the dogs were hungry and didn't have homes, it just broke my heart, Mary. I got to thinking about Gabe's list."

"Yeah, but I don't think Sherlock meant for us to adopt a dog for Gabriel."

"Pssht… he'll be fine with it. And I already talked to Mrs. Hudson about it, so don't even try that argument. I can see you thinking of it already."

All of her arguments died on her lips as the attendant brought the puppy out from the back. The cutest black and tan spotted Artois hound they'd ever seen was perched in the arms of the vet assistant. The dog had enormous floppy ears, wide brown eyes and a curious nose that was already sniffing them out as they approached. "Oh my God…" Mary squealed. "That is the cutest puppy I've ever seen…" She immediately scooped the small dog out of the attendant's arms and snuggled it to her chest.

"She is precious, isn't she?" the man said. "I'm so glad that someone is adopting her. She's the runt of the litter and we were afraid that she wouldn't be adopted."

"How could anyone not want such an adorable thing," Mary cooed, kissing the hound on the nose.

"She's an Artois hound. They're medium sized dogs and they get along pretty well with everyone. Kind of like a Basset, but they're not as stocky. They can get lazy, so you have to be sure and walk them a few times every day. And they're also chewers, so make sure they have something to chew on and keep your shoes off the floor. But, they're excellent sniffer dogs, so nothing will get past her."

John smirked. "Sounds like the perfect dog for Sherlock."

"He's going to kill you," Mary mumbled.

**OoOoOo**

"So why did you get Dr. Molly a necklace?" Gabriel asked. "I never seen her wear one before."

"You _have_ never seen her wear one before," Sherlock corrected. "And I got it for her because I thought she'd like it. You don't think she'd like it?"

Gabriel shrugged.

"Gabriel…"

"I know, shrugging isn't an answer," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "I think she'll like it. I still think you should have got her that ring."

"I'm not getting the ring."

"But dad…"

"No."

Gabriel sighed. "You're no fun."

"I know."

It was silent in the cab for a few minutes as they sat at the stoplight to turn onto Baker Street. Then Gabriel piped up again. "Dad?"

"Yes?" Heavy sigh.

"Mrs. Hudson says that people buy each other jewelry if they love each other. Is that true?"

"I suppose." His mobile buzzed and he fished around in his pocket to retrieve it.

"So then you _love_ Doctor Molly?"

Sherlock dropped his phone as the cab screeched to a halt in front of 221B. "Damnit…" he grumbled, reaching down to grab the mobile. "Let's go see if John and Mary are home yet. I have to go out again."

"But dad… I thought you were going to stay with me all day," he whined, stomping up the stairs behind Sherlock.

"You know, no one ever considers the fact that I do have to work sometimes," Sherlock snapped. "You all think that I just lie around here doing nothing all the time. Before you lot, I always had cases and experiments and work to do. Now, apparently I'm just a...a... babysitter!" Seeing that John and Mary were sitting at the table having tea, Sherlock stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Gabriel gaping after him.


	26. Emotional Intelligence

**A/N: WARNING! There is one paragraph in here that's M. But I'm not changing the rating for one little paragraph, so... consider yourself warned. MizJoely, Librasmiles, Morbid by Default, Rocking the Redhead... omg... there are so many of you who have reviewed and given me so much support. I love you all and welcome your reviews and feedback. I'm also giving a shout out to the lovely person who PMed me and gave me some ideas and was so sweet about the story. Thank you so much, everyone! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel..**

"Ha ha, John!" Gabriel cackled. "Back to square one!" He took John's game piece and slid it down the snake's back to the lowest square.

"You get far too much pleasure out of that, Gabe," John grumbled, passing the dice back to him. It was too bad that Snakes and Ladders wasn't a professional sport. Gabriel had fiendish luck with it. Still, it was better than playing Cluedo with him. He was almost as good at it as Sherlock and played as fiercely. And was certainly not above making up his own rules as he went along. "Did you ever consider letting an old man win once in a while?"

Gabriel stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Nope." He rolled the dice and moved his piece. "Dad says you should never let people win. It insults their intelligence."

"And you picked today to do whatever he says, huh?"

"I always do. My dad knows everything," Gabe said matter of factly, rolling the dice again. "Why did Mary leave?"

"She had to take care of some things at her flat. She'll be back in the morning." The truth was that Mary had gone to her flat to feed and walk the newly acquired puppy. She had agreed to keep it there until Christmas. John had planned to tell Sherlock about it tonight, but given the mood he was in, it didn't seem like a good idea.

Gabriel sighed and stood up, going to Sherlock's armchair and flopping down with a sigh. "I'm tired of playing. And my arm hurts."

"Bad?"

"Pretty bad," Gabe sighed.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"At least a seven." He cradled his arm closer.

"Well you can't take your medicine until you have something to eat. What should we have for lunch?" John went to the refrigerator and peered inside. "We have some leftover Chinese take away, some of Mrs. Hudson's chicken soup… any of that appeal?"

Gabriel sighed. "I don't care." John closed the fridge and turned back to where Gabriel sat, swinging his feet. He was very susceptible to Sherlock's moodiness. When Sherlock was upset, Gabriel got upset. Evidently something had happened while they were out earlier. Maybe they'd had a row in the cab. "John, is my dad mad at me?"

"I don't think so, mate. Why do you ask?"

"He snapped at me and then went into his room and he won't come out. But I didn't do anything wrong, I don't think."

"Nah… sometimes people seem to be mad when really they're kind of confused about something else. Especially people like your dad who have a hard time when they don't know what to do. He's not really mad at you, Gabe. He's mad at himself."

"I wonder if it's because of Doctor Molly."

"What about Molly?"

"Dad had this pretty necklace made for her for Christmas. I said he should have gotten her the ring. He got kind of growly after that." Gabriel shrugged and flipped the television on.

John put the leftover soup on the stove and turned it on before wandering down the hall to Sherlock's room. He knocked lightly on the door and receiving no response, pushed it open. Sherlock lay on his bed flat, fingertips steepled under his chin as he looked up at the ceiling. "You okay in here?"

No reply.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You've been in here for hours."

"I'm fine."

"Are you really fine or are you just saying 'I'm fine' so that I'll leave you alone?"

"Please don't try to confuse me, John. I'm thinking."

"Well you might try thinking out here. Gabriel thinks you're mad at him and I'm heating some lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

"Call the papers!" John exclaimed sarcastically. "Look, I can appreciate that you want to have some weird pity party, but you've been hiding in here for a while now and you might want to consider your child. Your child with the broken arm who doesn't feel particularly good and is looking for you to comfort him." John stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "People with children no longer have the luxury of pouting."

"I'm not pouting," Sherlock sighed. "I'm thinking." The way in which he rolled over, showing John his back did not suggest thinking. It suggested pouting.

John sighed, staring at his bratty friend in silence. Then it dawned on him what all of this was really about. "Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. If you love her, then why is it so hard to tell her?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said in that breathless, aloof tone he had that drove John absolutely bonkers.

"Of course you don't," John sighed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a deep red velvet box on the nightstand. It was too large for a ring, so it must be the necklace that Gabriel had mentioned. John strolled over and picked it up. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

"Do whatever you want," Sherlock grumbled with a dismissive wave.

John opened the box and inhaled sharply. "Wow…" He ran his fingers over the necklace, mentally counting the pearls. He didn't even want to think about how much it must have cost. A small fortune, at least. Every now and then John thought about why on earth someone like Sherlock would need a flatshare, but he tried not to think too hard. He feared it would only confuse and disturb him. "That's… that's making a statement, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned. "What do you mean?"

"It's the most… exquisite piece of jewelry I've ever seen."

"You don't like it?"

"No… no… I do. It's beautiful. But are you sure you wanted to… you know… I mean, its true that you and Molly have been friends for quite some time. But you've only been an item for a little more than a month. And something like this definitely says you're in for the long haul."

Sherlock groaned. "Uggh… your quaint vernacular makes me positively queasy." He sat up quickly, pushing his fingers through his hair. "So what you're saying, is that in my attempt _not_ to buy Molly a ring and thus confuse the nature of our relationship, I've bought her something that is even more portentous?"

"Kind of… yeah."

"What should I do about it? Just not give it to her?" He raised his eyebrow at John, a glimmer of hope that he was about to be saved from his own folly by the clear and level head of his flatmate.

"Of course you should give it to her, ya dolt! It seems to me that your problem is that you're afraid to really tell her what you want."

"Oh? And what is it that I want, Dr. Phil? Do tell me."

"Obviously you want an exclusive, long term relationship with Molly."

"Obviously? OBviously?" He accented his words with venom.

"Well, yeah. Every time someone brings up, even in jest, the concept of the two of you being married, living together… whatever… you get very uncomfortable. Now, some people might think that indicates that you're content to keep your relationship casual, but I know you better than most. To take your relationship to this new level would be admitting that you have been wrong all along with your loathing of sentiment. Sherlock Holmes is in love, but he can't say that. Someone might think he was weak."

"Ridiculous…"

"Is it? Tell me, Sherlock. Are you more afraid that she'll reject you or that she'll say yes?"

**OoOoOo**

Molly was finishing up her last patient of the day when her phone buzzed. "Hold on just a moment, Mr. Phelps," she said to the corpse on the table in front of her.

_Are you done working? –SH_

She smiled, feeling goosebumps break out all over.

_Finishing up right now. – M_

_Come to Baker Street. – SH_

_I have to go home first. –M _

_It wasn't a request. –SH _

There was a thrum in Molly's chest that fluttered down into her belly and then to points farther south at seeing that simple sentence that glowed in bright white digital letters on her screen. He was Growly Sherlock tonight. Molly had a very primal lust for Growly Sherlock. Growly Sherlock made her heart beat faster and drew screams from her throat that he would silence with his mouth or the palm of his hand. Growly Sherlock left marks where no one could see that would remind her of him the next day when she sat at her desk or crossed her legs.

_I have to feed Tobias and get some clothes. –M _

_Done. Come to Baker Street. –SH_

_How did you get in my flat? –M _

_Zip up the stiff and come home. –SH _

Molly smiled, feeling the heat in her cheeks radiate all the way down her neck and across her chest. "All right, Mr. Phelps. Let's just get your heart back where it belongs." Molly picked up the organ and paused, staring at the delicate thing. It was strange, but she was morbidly fascinated by the intricacies of the human heart. As if she thought that perhaps someday she would see something, some tiny little feature that would help her to understand Sherlock. She'd awakened early this morning to an empty bed. Both Gabriel and Sherlock had gotten up and she could hear the latter in the shower. She'd briefly considered joining him, but Gabriel's barky, early morning cough stopped her. He'd obviously been in the shower with his father so he could get his hair washed without getting his cast wet. In any case, it was a good thing that she hadn't opened up the door and slipped behind the curtain. She'd gone into the kitchen to find that Mary was already there making tea and toast with jam for their breakfast. After several minutes, Sherlock and Gabriel had emerged, both of them looking sleepy and wearing stormy expressions. When she'd tried to peck his cheek, Sherlock had pulled away slightly and given her the strangest look. Perhaps he meant to apologize.

Or else he wanted her to come over so that he could break things off.

**OoOoOo**

When Molly arrived at 221B, it was very strangely quiet. The door was open and Mrs. Hudson's flat was empty. "Hello?" she called, but no answer came. It was dark and she ascended the stairs slowly so as not to trip. "Sherlock?" she called again and still no response. "Gabriel? John? Anybody?" When she got to the door, it was pushed closed, but not latched. She could hear music playing quietly as she opened the door. The flat was lit only by the fireplace and the lights on the Christmas tree. She could smell something rich and spicy and delicious cooking. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, Sherlock stepped from around the corner and pulled her against him.

"It took you long enough," he growled in her ear, pulling her purse off of her shoulder and tossing it aside.

"Sor…" He cut her off with an aggressive kiss that forced her mouth open and stole her breath. It served to distract as he pushed the heavy coat to the floor behind her. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, she noticed that he was shirtless and she burrowed closer, wanting to feel his skin. It was warm and smooth and pale in the flickering light from the fire. And his smell was like nothing else. So earthy and spicy, tempered with the crisp, cool scent of his shampoo. So utterly masculine. So Sherlock. Molly had always had this idea of romance that was so sweet and sterile. So Disney princesss. But this was much better. This lusty need that Sherlock incited in her.

He kicked the door to the flat closed behind them and backed Molly against it, one arm wound firmly around her waist and the other tangled in her hair. She slid her hands to the neck of her blouse, fumbling with the top button, but he grabbed both of her wrists, pressing them behind her firmly and holding them in place until she understood that she was to keep her hands off. He had her trapped between his body and the door as he slipped his hand down her back, over the curve of her bottom and down to her thigh. His long, sinuous fingers sought the hem of her skirt, pulling it higher until he could feel the cool flesh of her thigh and the thin, lacy trim of her virginal underwear.

There was no kissing, no whispered words as their bodies crashed together over and over. The only sound was their heavy breathing, the hollow thud of the door as it rattled in the frame behind them and then a single, long growl as Sherlock climaxed. He shuddered against her, breathing against her throat as he slowly released his hold on her. "Sorry…" he panted.

"No problem," Molly sighed, feeling him slip away from her, but not wanting him to. She wound her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin. He walked them into the lounge where he'd made a palate on the floor in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She sat down, watching with a hungry smirk as he rearranged his clothing. He was wearing those jeans she liked, and left the button undone so that they fell dangerously low on his hips. A single drop of perspiration slid down the middle of his chest and he swiped it away with the heel of his hand. She had to stifle a giggle, looking at his hair. His curls were wild and he was desperately trying to tame them with his fingers. He looked nervous, and exhausted, for obvious reasons. "Are you ok, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Uhm… yeah. No. I'm not sure."

She narrowed her eyes. "Well… given what just happened… there's something going on." She looked up at him as he paced back and forth. "What is it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at her with ice cold eyes. "I am… so… angry with you, Molly Hooper!" he said finally.

"Uhm… what?"

"You heard me! I'm mad at you! I had everything figured out. My whole life set out in front of me like a map. I knew every turn and every street. I am… a machine. I am a brain, Molly. Just a brain. I don't crowd up my head with all sorts of rubbish like sentiment and sexuality. I can do what other people can't because I never have to think of consequences or…" His speech trailed off in an angry growl.

"Okay… I'm not sure I'm following…"

"Don't you see? You've ruined my life! And I am so… angry. I hate you!"

"Sherlock—"

"No… just… shut up and let me finish." Molly's mouth snapped shut. "I was sitting at my desk the other night, staring into the microscope and I found that I couldn't concentrate. I had no idea what I was even looking at. All I could think of was the curve of your mouth when you smile. Or that breathy little sigh you do when you're falling asleep. Or how when you get into bed you roll from one side to the other precisely three times before you can relax. I was at a crime scene with Lestrade yesterday and I was supposed to be examining the body, but all I could think about was how happy I was to sit on the couch with your head tucked into my shoulder and Gabriel curled up in our laps. I can't work without thinking about you. And the really infuriating part is… I don't care. What I always thought was so important before doesn't mean… anything. I have no idea who I am anymore, Molly and I hate you for it. But…"

"Please tell me there's a but coming, Sherlock," she sighed.

"But… I… love you, Molly. There. I said it. I love you. I, me, Sherlock Holmes, love you, Molly Hooper. I cannot imagine spending one more day of my life without you. I love you so much more than I could ever hate. And I cannot promise that I won't be an absolute horror to live with, but I can tell you now, with all certainty and absolutely no hope or expectation of reciprocity, that I will love you, Molly Hooper, until I stop drawing breath."

Molly's eyes were enormous. For several moments she stared at him, dumbfounded. She had absolutely no words to respond to his little speech. "That was… probably the worst I love you speech ever, Sherlock."

"I know. I'm not very good at this…"

"And the best." She stood up and threw herself into his arms and he actually seemed surprised. He hugged her tightly, holding on as long as possible. "I have nothing to say that would compare with that, I'm afraid. Just that… I love you back. I always have, you idiot."

She felt him smile as his lips rested against the curve of her throat. "Oh… I uhm… I'm going to give you this now. It didn't seem right to give it to you in front of everyone. And I've been informed that it is totally the wrong thing, but… I had to find something that was as beautiful as you are… and well… I'm afraid I've come up terribly short. Again." He took the dark red velvet box from the coffeetable and handed it to her. "Happy Christmas, Molly."


	27. We Wish You a Fluffy Christmas

**A/N: Hey kids! It has been so busy the last few days. I'm so sorry I haven't been able to update, but I really just haven't had much time to write. But don't worry, I have a bit for you-not too short but not very long. And there will be more I HOPE tonight. I plan to stay up late and write by the lights of the Christmas tree. Thanks again to all those who read and reviewed. I'm so sorry I scared some of you with that last chapter! LOL... You didn't think Sherlock was going to be all lovey-dovey did you? He has to be romantic in his own way. Here goes-**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.**

"Sherlock?" Molly sighed sleepily. She lay on her belly in front of the fire wearing only the exotic necklace and a wineglass perched between her fingertips. Their empty plates lay discarded on the floor with only a few crumbs left. After the evening's activities, they had understandably been famished. Even Sherlock had devoured his dinner like a starving man. After all, one needed to keep up his strength.

"Yes?" he called from the kitchen where he was rummaging around in the fridge, looking for another bottle of wine.

Molly giggled seeing Sherlock Holmes, the world's only nude consulting detective, bending over to pull a bottle from the back. "Come back… I'm cold."

"We only have white. Is white okay?" he asked.

"I probably shouldn't drink any more. My head already feels swimmy."

Sherlock smiled, making his way back across the room. "Are you love drunk, Miss Hooper?" he asked, drawing out loooove suggestively.

"I think so, Mr. Holmes…" she purred, crawling over and kissing him. She nibbled at his generous lower lip, pulling it between her teeth and suckling gently. He did not break their kiss as he refilled their glasses and set the bottle aside. "Maybe you're just trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me."

He smirked and slid his arm around her waist. In a smooth movement, he pulled her into his arms and laid her down on the quilt beneath them. "I think it's too late for that," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

Molly gazed up at him, still unable to believe that any of this was actually happening. Every now and then she would be paralyzed with the fear that she would suddenly wake up, the last couple of months being some kind of fever dream. Molly had never been the girl to get the guy. All through school, she'd been the wallflower, always admiring from afar. "I still have a hard time believing all of this," she said.

"All of what?" he asked, his voice faraway and distracted as he kissed at the hollow just under her ear and along the curve of her throat.

"This. You. Us. I'm just having trouble processing, I guess. I mean, I've been so lonely for so long. I've been hopelessly in love with you for eight years. I just can't believe that for once, I'm getting what I want."

"What is it that Ebeneezer Scrooge says at the end of A Christmas Carol? 'God forgive me for the time I've wasted.'"

Molly purred as he brushed his rough cheek against her chest. "When will the others be back?"

"John took Gabriel and Mrs. Hudson to dinner. And I think to the cinema," he murmured, blazing a trail of kisses down the valley between her breasts. "I told John to text me when they were on their way home."

"Good…" she said, rolling over on her stomach to retrieve her glass. "Because I plan on having you once more before they get home."

He growled, closing his mouth over her nipple and nibbling gently. "You're insatiable, Miss Hooper. I'm not sure I'm up to the challenge."

She slid her leg along his thigh until her knee nudged his sex. "Ooh… oh I think you're uhm… up to it… so to speak." Sherlock smiled and captured her mouth once more, greedily tasting the wine that lingered on her lips.

Then his phone buzzed.

**OoOoOo**

By the time John and Gabriel got back, Sherlock and Molly were curled up on the couch together, looking innocent, in their pajamas. Gabriel raced over and launched himself on to the couch between them. "Hey Dad!" he said, throwing his good arm around his father's neck. "We're home."

"Hey, kid. How was the film?" Sherlock asked supporting Gabriel's back as he perched precariously.

Gabriel shrugged. "Kind of babyish. But it was funny." He turned to Molly. "Hi Doctor Molly."

"Hi Gabe," she pulled him into her lap and squeezed him tight. "Oh my goodness… your cheeks are freezing, sweetie!" She kissed them until he was giggling madly. "How's your arm?"

"It's okay," he said, settling himself in her lap. "It hurts a little bit now."

Sherlock rose from his place to get the medicine while Gabriel snuggled with Molly. Sherlock couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a victorious gleam in his child's eye. "You know, Gabe, I'm off work until the second week in January."

Gabriel's eyes lit up. "Hooray! Are you going to stay here?"

"For some of it, I'm sure. But will you help me make Christmas biscuits? I usually make them at home, but if I'm not there, I'll need some help…"

"Yes!" He smiled and hugged Molly again as he stretched to whisper in her ear. "I love you, Doctor Molly."

She blushed and nuzzled the little boy, "I love you more, Gabriel Holmes," she whispered as Sherlock held the measuring spoon full of medicine out to him.

"That's not that disgusting cherry stuff is it?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"If by 'disgusting cherry stuff' you mean the codeine, then no. It's just paracetamol." He waited for him to swallow the medicine and then shoved a cup of juice in his hand. All of them laughed at seeing Gabe's 'icky' face.

"Oh, Gabe," John piped up. "You have to show them your cast."

Gabriel sighed and his cheeks flushed that unique shade of scarlet that indicated embarrassment. "It's nothing."

"Oh it didn't look like nothing to me," John teased as he filled the kettle with water. "Gabe's little friend Katie was at the cinema with her mum. By the way, Sherlock… Katie's mum says hello."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept quiet.

"Anyway, she signed his cast. Go ahead and show them, Gabe." The little boy pulled his arm out of its sling and held it up to the light so that Molly and Sherlock could see. "Katie" was written in large blocked letters on the side of the red cast in black marker. She had drawn a few stars around her name, but the centerpiece of her signature artwork was the large heart that she'd sketched over the i in her name.

"Ooooh… Gabriel. I think she likes you," Molly giggled. "Girls only put hearts in their names when they like you."

"Of course she likes me. She's my friend." He looked up at Sherlock as if seeking approval. After all, those were his words.

"But does she like you for a friend or does she like you like she wants to kiss you?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Daaadd…" Gabriel sighed. "That's gross."

"Is it?" he asked, sitting down on the couch beside Molly. He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, squishing Gabriel between them.

"Uggh…" Gabriel groaned, squirming away from the kissing couple. "Leave me out of it."

**OoOoOo**

"So what are we doing here?" Sherlock asked the next morning as they stared up at Mary's building. Christmas Eve had finally arrived and John was being very secretive about something. Sherlock had been trying to deduce what it was by asking John a series of questions and examining his clothing, but whatever it was, he'd been hiding it very well. Given that they were now on their way to Mary's flat, that opened up several possibilities: John was moving in with her and leaving Baker Street or perhaps John was going to ask Mary to marry him—but then, why would he want Sherlock tagging along.

"I have to show you something. But you have to promise not to get pissed off."

"I never promise something like that. I find it very hard not to get pissed off when someone says 'don't get pissed off.'" Sherlock huffed and pulled his coat tighter around him. "Are we going in or shall we just stand here on the sidewalk until New Years?"

"We're going in. I just want you to keep an open mind. You know how you get."

"Oh for God's sake, just get it over with! I left Gabriel with Molly destroying the kitchen, Lestrade is all over my phone, Gabriel has to see the orthopedist at 3, we have people coming to the flat tonight and I've been told that I _have_ to wrap Christmas presents. So time is at a premium."

"All right, all right… just come on, then," John sighed. Mary lived in one of those old London townhouses on the artsy end of town. As they stepped into the foyer, it looked like someone's lounge rather than a lobby to a block of flats. There was a seating area with deep, leather couches, bookcases and a fireplace on either side of a large staircase that presumably led up to the flats. "So Mary and I were looking at Gabriel's Christmas list the other day and we came to the conclusion that with the exception of that hip he wanted for Mrs. Hudson, that you'd gotten him pretty much everything on his list."

"God, not this again," Sherlock mumbled as they started up the stairs. "I told you. The child has spent his whole life in a dreary, loveless atmosphere. I think indulging him a little at Christmas…"

"No no… I'm not impugning your overindulgence of Gabriel. I was simply stating that we had trouble getting him a present that would even halfway compare to the fantastic haul of treasure you'd already gotten him."

"It's not that much," Sherlock sighed.

"Oh really? Hmm… let's see… a violin, an art set to rival Picasso's, one of just about everything Cadbury makes, books, clothes, a new scarf, a Lego castle with a dragon that quite literally breathes fire, paint, curtains, a rug and a new bed for his room… dare I go on?"

"Mycroft bought the bed."

John rolled his eyes as he knocked at Mary's door.

"Hello, loves!" she exclaimed as she opened the door. "Happy Christmas!" She hugged John tightly and kissed him on the mouth before turning and doing the same to Sherlock. When she pulled back, he looked stricken, but she pretended not to notice. "I suppose you've come to see the—"

John interrupted, backing Mary into the flat. "Exactly. We came to see that item that you're holding for us." They didn't have to wait long as before they made it over the threshold, a rambunctious puppy bounded over the couch and began dancing around John's ankles, wanting to be picked up. It gave a tiny bark to get his attention and John knelt, gathering the wiggly thing in his arms.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

Mary giggled. "It's a puppy, silly."

"I can see that it's obviously a tiny canine, but why do you have this thing?"

"Well… actually," John began. "Mary doesn't have it. You do." His words were cut off as the dog began licking his face.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

Mary laughed and took the dog from John, letting it nuzzle under her hair and lick at her earlobe. "This is our present to Gabriel."

"No."

"What?" John and Mary said in unison.

"I said no. It's a very nice gesture, but no. I am not bringing a dog into my house. Mycroft has those awful little fluffballs that chew up everything and growl at everyone. They're little rats with long hair that piss on everything. Forget it. No."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary cooed, snuggling the puppy against her cheek. "Look at her. She's so cute. And Gabriel will love her."

"No."

"Come on, Sher… every little boy should have a dog," John said. "Didn't you ever have a dog?"

"My parents had guard dogs. They weren't in the house. They were—" He stopped as Mary shoved the puppy into his arms. It immediately snuggled against Sherlock and stared up at him with those enormous and sad brown eyes. "Those eyes don't work on me," he grumbled. The dog was small with large feet and wrinkles around it's ankles, indicating that it was going to grow a bit bigger. Its coat was mostly white with brown spots and one spot of black right around its snout that was already sniffing vigorously at Sherlock. The dog's ears were so large and floppy that Sherlock thought that for sure it would trip over them if he set it down on the floor.

"Oh I think she likes you, Sherlock," Mary said.

"Don't be absurd. She likes the traces of breakfast and tea that she can no doubt smell on my hands and coat." As if on cue, the puppy stretched up and licked Sherlock's chin. "And Mrs. Hudson…"

"Has already given her blessing to keep the dog. Come on… it'll be fun. I'll help with her too," John said, the smirk on his face revealing that he knew he'd won.

"I hate all of you."


	28. Christmas Eve

**A/N: Happy Christmas, everyone! It's been busy, so I'm a day behind. But God willing, the next chapter will be up sometime later today! Thanks again for all your reviews! I hope this chapter is up to your expectations! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.**

Gabriel Holmes had enough flour on his person to make another batch of biscuits. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his idea to let a person with a broken arm add the flour. "Oh Gabe," Molly giggled. "You have it all over." She was right. The white powder had settled on his face, in his hair, on his pants and in large handprints all over his hoodie.

"So do you," he replied, pointing at her. "You have marshmallow fluff all over your shirt." Molly looked down to see that she had streaks of white, sticky marshmallow all over the front of the teeshirt she'd "borrowed" from Sherlock's cupboard. It was all right, though. Her Gram had always said that you couldn't make good food without wearing a little of it. Her and Gabriel had gotten up early to begin the process of baking all manner of Christmasy treats for the gathering that evening. Molly smiled, thinking of how it was a 'gathering' and not a party. Sherlock insisted that they didn't have parties. Parties were loud and full of drunken idiots having the same stupid conversations. A gathering was more like what they did on Tuesdays with dinner. A group of friends having casual conversations with wine and food. It was nothing like a party. She had asked Sherlock once what the difference was and he had, of course, changed the subject. At any rate, her and Gabriel had make quick work of the mince pies, Christmas biscuits, gingerbread and fudge. "Can we eat the fudge now?"

"No, silly! We have to wait until tonight."

"Do we get to open presents tonight?" Gabriel looked toward the tree that only had a few items wrapped underneath. Mary and John had been pretty diligent in their wrapping, but Sherlock just kept piling things into 221C in the faint hope that the wrapping fairies would come take care of it.

"When I was a little girl, we always got to open one on Christmas Eve and the rest on Christmas morning. You know that Father Christmas won't come until tonight."

"I know."

"What did you do for Christmas at St. Christopher's?" Molly asked. She'd been wondering about the things that had happened at the convent since she heard him talking to the hair stylist the other night. Sherlock had told her a little of what he knew, but it wasn't much. She wondered if perhaps he was afraid to know more.

"Just churchy stuff," he replied with a shrug. "I liked some of it. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was always nice because it was the only time when there were lots of people around. Sometimes there were even kids who would come with their parents."

"Oh? Did you get to play with them?"

"No. I wasn't supposed to. This girl talked to me once and gave me a candy cane. And then of course the caretaker gave me my fairy tale book last year. He brought me Christmas biscuits that his wife made too." He stood on the step stool beside the counter and helped Molly roll dough into little balls. "But I liked the singing and the Nativity scene on the altar. And there were candles and all these red flowers. It was really pretty." He paused, chewing on his lower lip in a way that was so much like Sherlock. "Doctor Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you believe all that stuff about God and Jesus?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "Don't you?"

"Well, I used to think so. I mean, I do, I guess. But my dad always says that you shouldn't believe something unless you can prove it." He began smashing the dough balls into flat circles. "And I can't prove that there's a God. So I guess there isn't one."

Molly stopped and wiped her hands clean on a cloth. She knelt down in front of him. "You know, Gabriel, faith is believing in something you can't always see. Like Father Christmas. You believe in Father Christmas don't you?"

"Yeah. You know I do."

"Well then… have you ever seen the real Father Christmas? His reindeer? That big sack of toys?"

Gabriel giggled and shook his head. "Of course not."

"So see there, you do believe in something you can't see or touch." She winked and went back to the Christmas biscuits.

An hour later, the table was covered with trays full of Christmasy treats. Mrs. Hudson was in charge of all the savories and once she got her stuff added to the mix, they would have more food than they knew what to do with. There was only one more thing. The perfect Christmas fruitcake. Molly smiled at her own industriousness. She had everything arranged and measured perfectly so that all she had to do was throw everything together, stick the cake in the oven and then she could help Gabe get ready for his doctor appointment.

"What is this stuff?" Gabe asked, picking up the wooden spoon and watching the gloopy batter plop back into the bowl. "It looks like dog poo."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "Gross, Gabriel. It's fruitcake batter. It's going to have candied cherries and pineapple and nuts… it's delicious."

"I'll take your word for it." He watched as she chopped up the fruit into smaller pieces and rolled it in flour before tossing it into the mixture. "That knife is pretty sharp, Doctor Molly. You better be careful."

"Oh, don't worry. This is my Gram's recipe. I've made it a hundred times. I won't…" Famous last words are always spoken too late. Molly's finger immediately began to bleed. The cut wasn't deep, but it stung pretty bad and she had to rush to the sink to keep from bleeding in the fruitcake batter.

"Oh no! Are you okay?" Gabe asked.

"I'm fine," she replied, holding her hand under the cold water. "Why don't you go get me a plaster." A few minutes later, he returned with the bandage and helped her wrap up her finger. "So much for my manicure," she sighed, staring at the ugly bit of plastic and gauze wrapped around her fingertip.

"It's okay, Doctor Molly. At least you don't have a cast."

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock looked down at his watch and sighed. Time was slipping away faster and faster. What kind of doctors' office schedules a child's appointment on Christmas Eve? The kid's arm was broken. He didn't think that was going to change in the three days since it had happened. He had forty –five minutes to get Gabriel and get all the way across town in shopping traffic. They weren't going to make it. Maybe he should just call now. Surely a follow-up wasn't all that necessary.

He took the front stairs at 221 two at a time, offering a short wave to Mrs. Hudson as he passed before she could say more than hello. Suddenly, he realized that the entire place smelled… amazing. Sherlock had never been much for food, but this was otherworldly. It actually made him almost… hungry. He was never hungry. Well, except for that post-coital hunger that he'd only recently discovered. That was just physiology.

As he arrived at the top of the stairs, following the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon, he detected something else. A sound that was soft like a whimper. He turned round the corner and spotted Gabriel, standing over Molly and patting her shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay, Doctor Molly… don't cry." Upon closer inspection he could see that the kitchen was splattered with sticky brown batter. It was even on the ceiling. There was smoke pouring out of the top of the oven and both Gabe and Molly were so covered in cake batter and flour that they looked like living gingerbread men. "Are you ok?" He couldn't help it. His voice trailed off in peals of laughter.

"It isn't funny, Dad," Gabriel grumbled.

"No… it is. It is," Molly sobbed, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face and managing to swipe more batter across her nose. "It's high-fucking-larious!"

"Oh Molly… I'm sorry…" Sherlock chuckled, walking toward them and carefully avoiding the huge puddle of fruit scooge on the floor. "What happened?"

"Well… first I cut my finger, then I burned a batch of biscuits that I forgot was in the oven, then I dropped the bowl full of fruitcake batter and in the process of cleaning it up, I slipped and fell on my ass!" After spitting out this confession, she started crying again with renewed vigor. "I just suck at this domestic thing, I guess."

Sherlock knelt down and put an arm around Molly's waist, helping her to a standing position. "Come on, my darling. Let's get you in the bath. Gabe and I will clean up this mess."

"And all these people coming over… and I haven't finished wrapping… and…"

"Shush," he whispered, kissing her temple. "It will get done. And if it doesn't who cares?"

"I care!"

"Why?" he asked, walking her toward his bathroom.

"Because… everything has to be perfect!" she exclaimed. "The last Christmas we spent together was… horrible. I don't want that to be the precedent for every Christmas hereafter!"

Sherlock stopped, holding her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "One day we will laugh about all of our little mishaps. And this is not a disaster. It's a… ruined fruitcake and a mess. By tonight everything will be just as perfect as you want it. And then after…." He pulled her in for a kiss. "You can help me wrap. Play Father Christmas…"

Molly smiled and rubbed her cheek against his. "I'm not wrapping your presents for you."

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel stood in awe, watching his father play. He'd watched him play many times, of course, but he was amazed every time. The others seemed to barely notice, still talking amongst themselves as they sipped wine and nibbled at the food left on their plates. But like most things Sherlock did, it seemed superhuman to Gabriel.

"The last Christmas we all spent together was odd, to say the least," Greg said, refilling his wine glass. "If anyone had seen us then, they'd hardly believe we're the same people."

"Why? What happened?" Mary asked.

"We don't need to go into it," Sherlock said, his song trailing off with a dissonant screech.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Once more Sherlock was an infuriating sod. The fact that Molly is here now is a testament to her patience and good nature."

Molly giggled and began gathering plates. "I'm a sucker to his charms, I suppose." Gabriel ambled over to the table and took his cup, then wrinkling his nose as he realized that there was nothing in it. Molly took it and refilled it with juice. "Besides, we all know that Sherlock doesn't mean to be an idiot. His mouth just gets ahead of his brain sometimes."

"This is why I never go to parties," Sherlock grumbled, going back to his violin.

**OoOoOo**

"I thought we'd never get done," Molly sighed, sitting back on the couch. "I wouldn't want to say that you're spoiling Gabriel a little." She looked around, surveying the haul of gifts that were sprawled under the tree.

"All of this isn't for him, you know." He shoved the remnants of wrapping paper and ribbon down into the storage bag. "Some of it is for you and John and the others."

Molly smiled, seeing the boyish expression of guilt on his face. He didn't like for anyone to know, but she knew that he was enjoying every minute. And that he could hardly wait to see the look on Gabriel's face when he woke up and saw everything. They had assembled Gabe's easel and art set, the gigantic fire-breathing dragon that would eventually lay waste to the Lego castle and set up the violin so that it would appear that Father Christmas had come. "He's going to be amazed."

"I hope so," Sherlock said. "I don't mean to spoil him, Molly, but I wanted him to have a Christmas that would make up for all the horrible ones he's had so far."

"Well I think that achievement has been unlocked," Molly giggled. She snuggled against him, laying her head on his shoulder and yawning sleepily.

"Yeah, I thought so. Then all of my efforts will be thwarted when John and Mary get over here in the morning with that stupid dog. I wonder if I could convince him to let the dog stay at a kennel all the time and then we could just go visit on weekends."

"Oh don't be such a Grinch. He'll love it. And dogs are great. You'll get used to it."

"I still can't believe Mrs. Hudson agreed to let this happen. She was my last hope." Sherlock shook his head sleepily. "Let's go to bed. Gabe will be up in another hour or so…"

Molly laughed. "We'll probably have to wake him up. He was unconscious by the time you got him upstairs." He nodded, his eyelids heavy. "Sherlock… you know, I had something that I wanted to give you when we were alone."

He opened one eye and peered out at her questioningly. "Molly… as much as I'd love to, I'm really tired…"

She blushed. "No, silly." She leaned over, grabbing her purse from behind the couch and searching through it until she came up with a rumpled looking red package. "Here."

Sherlock took the red package and shook it gently. "It's a little…"

"I know, it looks old," she stammered. "That's because it is. Don't you recognize it?" She watched as he examined the box carefully, turning it over in his hands and running his fingertips over every crease. "I tried to give it to you a few years ago."

Suddenly, she could see the realization dawning in his eyes. "Oh yes… the last Christmas party… you never gave it to me."

"Well… I would have but… you sort of... humiliated me and then bolted out of the room. I was so embarrassed that I grabbed the box and rushed out. I kept it all this time, hoping that the right moment would arrive, but well…. I'm apparently I can't ever find the right time. So here. Open it." His eyes were focused as he pulled at the cellotape on the package. It was obvious that she'd kept it put up somewhere for a while. The paper was wrinkled a little and faded. "I'm sorry… the wrap looks a little… slapdash." She raised her eyebrow mischievously and giggled when he rolled his eyes. He pulled out the box and opened it carefully. Inside was a small trinket with a dial and hands like a watch. "It's a chronometer. It belonged to my dad. He was in the navy and he used to collect all this antique nautical stuff. This is the only piece that was left when he died."

"Molly… I… I can't take this."

"Of course you can. It's just a little reminder… You see, in the past, sailors would use these to help calculate the time and their position according to the stars. It's in case you ever lose your way again. I wanted to give it to you a long time ago, but it just never seemed the right time." She blushed again, the memories of that Christmas Eve before burning vividly behind her eyes. "If you don't want it."

Sherlock embraced her tightly. "Of course I want it." He kissed her softly and nuzzled her cheek. "Thank you, Molly. Not just for this, but for… giving me another chance."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."


	29. Christmas

**A/N: Sorry this took so long. Sheesh... Christmas. Yer killin' me. Anyway, here's a little chapter for you. Next up... a seaside holiday. And, I was also thinking of doing some one-shots in this universe to satisfy some fic wishes that I've seen in your comments. Whatdaya think? I may even take requests...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel and Catastrophe.**

Gabriel yawned, rolling over to face the window. It was bright. Brighter than normal. He scrambled out of bed and went to the window. Light flakes fell down in front of the window in a heavy downpour of snow. The street below was blanketed with white already and when he listened closely, he could hear the bells in the church down the street. They rang for Christmas Day and Gabriel smiled, his heart fluttering with excitement. He pulled on his dressing gown and burst through his bedroom door. He could already hear his father and John talking and Mary and Molly giggling in reply. As he descended the stairs he spotted John and Mary sitting at the kitchen table and his father and Doctor Molly preparing breakfast. "Hello?" he called. All of them turned to see him.

"Happy Christmas!" they called in unison.

He offered a big smile and rushed to his father. "Happy Christmas, Dad!" he exclaimed, allowing Sherlock to pick him up.

"We thought you'd never get up," Sherlock teased. "We were about to go upstairs and wake you. Imagine that, a child oversleeping on Christmas."

"I was sleepy," he sighed and then groaned slightly. "My arm feels itchy."

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, pouring a glass of juice for Gabriel.

"Just a little bit." He took the juice and a spoonful of medicine from Molly. "Blech…"

"Well hurry and wake up," John scolded. "Father Christmas came and left a bunch of stuff for you." He didn't even get to finish the sentence before Gabriel was squirming out of Sherlock's arms and sprinting into the lounge. There were shrieks of glee almost immediately. Taking their tea into the next room, they found Gabriel standing in the middle of the floor with a look that could only be described as disbelief.

The wrapped packages were piled so high that they oozed out from under the tree and all over the lounge. Sparkling red ribbons, green and silver paper seemed to glow from the fairy lights that twinkled in the tree. In the center of it all was the conglomeration of gifts left by Father Christmas. Gabriel was almost paralyzed, not knowing which things to look at first. He grabbed the violin off its stand first and hugged it to his chest, taking care not to crush the bow. "Is it really mine?" he asked, looking to Sherlock for approval.

"Of course. No one else has arms that short." Gabriel set down the violin and ran to embrace his father.

"He came, Dad! Father Christmas really came!"

"Was there any doubt?" Sherlock said. "And he gave me strict instructions that I'm to find you a violin teacher just as soon as your arm heals." Gabriel hugged him again, nearly sobbing with gratitude and disbelief. "Go… look at all the other stuff."

Gabriel flitted from one thing to the next, getting more excited with each passing moment. He squealed as he touched the dragon and it roared and spit sparks, gasped as he opened each drawer on the easel to find more paint and markers and colored pencils. He was so in awe of his bounty that he didn't notice the box standing ajar in the corner. It was a bit larger than all the others and had a lid that was set off center. It was wrapped up with bright paper and ribbon and it made a soft, whimpering noise. Gabriel turned when he heard it, wrinkling his nose. "What is that?" The package whimpered again and Gabriel spotted a tiny black nose sniffling at the open corner of the box. He gasped and ran to the box, throwing the lid off. "Oh my gosh! Dad, look!" He used his good arm to pull the puppy out of the box and cuddled it to his chest. The dog immediately began sniffing and licking at Gabriel's chin as he carried it across the room. "It's a puppy, Dad!"

"It certainly is," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

Molly squealed and took the puppy from Gabriel. "Oh, Gabe! She's precious!" The dog nuzzled under her hair and grunted happily.

"Can we keep her, Dad? Please?" Gabe asked, jumping up and down excitedly.

"I don't think we have much choice," Sherlock grumbled.

"What should we name her?" Molly asked, sitting down in Sherlock's armchair and snuggling both Gabriel and the dog.

"Catastrophe," Sherlock replied. Mary and John giggled.

"What's catastrophe?" Gabriel asked.

"A disaster of epic proportions," Molly answered. "But this little thing couldn't possibly be a disaster."

"That's kind of perfect, actually," John said.

Molly wound an arm around John's waist. "Call her Cat for short. I love it!"

**OoOoOo**

Within the hour Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had found their way up the stairs. Mary had insisted that John don a silly red hat to pass out everyone's gifts. Once everything was distributed, the group began tearing into their packages. All of them, even Sherlock, laughed and looked at everything with the wide, excited eyes of children. Molly blushed deeply as she opened the carefully wrapped box that contained the lacy underwear set that Sherlock had bought for her. The deep teal color just matched the dark pearls of her necklace. As a connoisseur of sensible cotton knickers, she'd never had something so risqué as the sheer bra, underpants and garter belt set. "Wow," she breathed.

Sherlock leaned over and whispered. "It's really not fair. It had your name on it, but really it's a gift for me."

"Oh, John! It's beautiful!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, holding up a cozy looking cardigan.

"Well it's always so cold down there in your flat. I thought it might help."

Gabriel rushed over to Mycroft, Catastrophe following close on his heels already. "Open mine next, Uncle Mycroft!" He pushed a box into Mycroft's hand. Mycroft smiled and tore the paper carefully as if he didn't want to break the ribbon. Inside the box was a silver pen. "It's a spy pen!" Gabriel exclaimed. "When you click the top, it takes a picture! Isn't that wicked?!"

Mycroft laughed. "Indeed. Did you pick this out by yourself?"

"Well… my dad may have helped a little bit." He hugged Mycroft again, careful not to bash him in the face with his cast. "I love you, Uncle Mycroft." Everyone was silent, waiting for a reaction or some kind of explosion. The elder Holmes looked positively stricken by Gabriel's sentiment, but after a few seconds he hugged the little boy back and ruffled his hair.

"Sherlock, I tried to convince her not to get that horrible thing," Mary said, watching as Sherlock pulled the exploded skull out of a box.

"No! It's great!" Sherlock exclaimed, moving the pieces and examining it. "And look! All the bones are labeled!"

"Now where will I hide that one?" Mrs. Hudson grumbled. "At least it's open so you can't hide cigarettes in there."

Mycroft stood up and went into his coat pocket, handing everyone an envelope with a train ticket inside. "The train leaves for East Sussex in the morning. The cottage at Camber Sands is open and waiting, though you might want to bring extra blankets if you get cold."

"What's this?" Mary asked, examining the tickets.

"I didn't believe you'd actually do it, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled. "It's our summer cottage, left to us by our parents. We never go there."

"It's rented out most of the summer but I thought it might be nice to spend a holiday," Mycroft continued. "There are six bedrooms, plenty of room for whomever would like to go. I'm afraid that I'll be in and out, as I have business…" Gabriel scowled disapprovingly. "…but I'll try to be there as much as possible. There's a train ticket for each of you, but there is a car hire in the station."

"Is the house on the beach?" Molly asked.

"It is. Just a stumble out the back door and onto the sand," Sherlock said. "Though I'd imagine right now that it's much too cold to spend much time on the beach."

"But still a beautiful place," Mary squealed, hugging John in her excitement.

"So this is where the pirate thing started?" John said with a smirk to Sherlock.

"I took the liberty of arranging for the decorators to come while we were gone to fix Gabriel's room upstairs," Mycroft continued. "Assuming you're still wanting to go, Sherlock?"

"Can we take Catastrophe with us, Dad?" Gabriel asked. The dog, upon hearing her name, leapt up into Sherlock's lap to lick at Gabriel's fingertips.

"I don't guess we have any choice."

**OoOoOo**

Everyone had gone and the quiet was a blessing. Sherlock sat on the couch, enjoying the silence as he played absently with Molly's hair. She reclined with her head on his lap, reading the antique post-mortem textbook that Sherlock had given her to go along with the tool set. Gabriel and Catastrophe sat on the floor watching a marathon of Star Wars movies. The dog hadn't left his side since hopping out of the box. Sherlock hated to admit it, but John was right.

On his way out earlier, Mycroft had given Sherlock one more gift. He hadn't opened it before. He wasn't sure why but the way in which his brother had given him the simply wrapped gift, he thought it must be something private. Ever since he'd faked his death, he and Mycroft's relationship, while still strained, was different. Now with Gabriel, it seemed even moreso. For the first time in quite a while, he was remembering what it had been like when they were children. He'd idolized his brother then, but life and circumstances, like they usually did, had gotten in the way. Mycroft had taken their father's side and Sherlock wasn't sure he could ever forgive his brother for that.

His long fingertips sought out the square, flat package on the table beside him. He turned it over in his hands. "What's that?" Molly asked.

"Something Mycroft gave me."

"Well… why don't you open it?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock replied. He pulled at the paper and finally uncovered a framed photograph. "Oh my God…"

Gabriel jumped up and went to his father, leaning on the armrest beside him. "Who is that?"

The photograph showed two boys. One tall and thin in his school uniform with his strawberry blonde hair perfectly combed and a bored sneer. He held a ridiculous looking pipe between his teeth. The other boy could have been Gabriel. He was much younger and he was reaching up to grab at the pipe. "It's me and Mycroft."

"You look like me, Dad!"

Molly sat up. "Oh my God, really?" She shifted, giggling as she took the picture from Sherlock. "Oh you were so cute!" In the photo, Sherlock wore a pirate hat and a Christmas jumper.

"It was the last Christmas we spent at Camber Sands all together. I was six. Mycroft was thirteen. The pipe was our grandfather's and Mycroft was always sneaking it to smoke when we went to Camber. He was always trying to pretend to be older." Sherlock smiled. "I was trying to take it from him because I didn't want him to smoke."

"Who took the picture?"

"My mother, I'm sure. I can't believe he kept it all this time." He shuddered. "Sentiment. He's getting old and soft."


	30. Ambergris

**A/N: New chapter! A little angsty this time. You've been warned.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel, Catastrophe and the beach house, Ambergris.**

They weren't even on the train yet and already Sherlock's head was pounding. The more he thought about it, the more apprehensive he became about this trip to Camber Sand. He hadn't set foot in the cottage, Ambergris, since before he'd left for school. When his mother died, leaving the estate and the summer cottage to both he and Mycroft, Sherlock had refused to take any part. Both places were monuments to an unhappy childhood full of painful memories. Being much older, Mycroft had spent most of his time at school. He hadn't had the full experience of their father's alcoholism, their mother's depression or the constant parade of mistresses. Sherlock was afraid that spending time at Ambergris was going dredge all that up again, tearing the scab off of a particularly sensitive wound.

"Gabriel!" he called, stepping into the bathroom. "Have you brushed your teeth?"

"Not yet!" the boy shouted down the stairs.

Sherlock sighed. He could hear Cat bounding across the floor with Gabe chasing after her. They were obviously playing rather than doing any of the things he'd told Gabe to do. "Well go do it, then! Don't make me tell you again!"

"Take it easy," John said, leaning in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom. "We'll get to the station on time." Sherlock grumbled unintelligibly as he spread shaving lather across his cheek. "Look, I know that you're a little on edge about this trip."

"On edge? Why would I be on edge?" Sherlock asked, concentrating on dragging the blade of his razor along the ridge of his jawline.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Nothing to tell."

John chuckled. "You know, we've been friends for quite a while now. I've lived with you and watched you work. Do you honestly think that I can't deduce when you're lying to me?"

"Fine. Yes, I'm on edge. My memories of Ambergris are not happy ones and I'm not particularly enthused about reliving them. But, Mycroft went to all the trouble and it is a beautiful place. So I'm going." John started to press, but their conversation was interrupted by a heavy thud then Cat barking and Gabriel crying. "Bloody hell…" Sherlock mumbled, throwing down the razor and sprinting up the stairs, wiping shaving lotion from his chin.

At the top of the stairs he saw Gabriel sitting on the floor of the hallway, holding his arm to his chest and sniffling while Cat licked his fingers and whined pitifully. "What in the hell is going on?"

"We were just playing. And I was going to run down the stairs and I ran into the rail and hit my arm."

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, his teeth clenched angrily.

"Yes," Gabriel sniffled. "I think so."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, picking Cat up and holding her under his arm. "Now will you please go and do as you've been told? Lest your arm be the least of your worries?"

Gabriel nodded. "Yes, Sir." He marched into the bath and Sherlock watched as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush before turning to nudge the dog down the stairs and walk into the little boy's room. Gabe's suitcase lay open and Sherlock sighed as he realized that nothing of importance had been packed. Only the fairy tale book, his dragon and his skully pajamas had been placed in the suitcase. And the skully pajamas had really just been balled up and thrown in. Sherlock sighed and went to the wardrobe, pulling out a week's worth of clothes plus an extra jumper and Gabe's hoodie. It was likely to be very cold on the beach. "What are you doing?" Gabe cried as he came into the room, catching Sherlock pulling his "important" things out of the suitcase.

"Taking these toys out of here so that we can fit your actual clothes inside."

"But I need that stuff, Dad!"

"No, you _need_ clothes and shoes, your hair and toothbrush. Once those things are packed, then you can put other stuff in. And you have to fold your clothes to get them into the case."

"But Dad…"

"Don't _argue_ with me, Gabriel!" Sherlock snapped. "The train leaves in just over an hour and with the traffic, it will take us at least twenty minutes to get to Charing Cross. Molly and Mary aren't here yet and the dog has to be walked. Not to mention that I have to get dressed myself! I don't have time for arguments. So let's pretend for a moment that you're an obedient child."

When Molly, Mary and Mrs. Hudson ascended the front stairs twenty minutes later, Gabriel was sitting on the couch, sniffling. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was having a monumental pout. "Well don't you look sour? Especially for someone to whom Father Christmas was so good yesterday and is about to go on a holiday with his family," Mrs. Hudson remarked.

"I don't want to go to the sea," he groused.

"Why not, sweetie?" Mary cooed, sitting down beside Gabe and putting an arm around his shoulders. "We're going to have such a good time."

"Not me," he sniffled.

"And why not?" Molly asked.

"My dad is so mean," Gabriel huffed. "He's not letting me take any of my toys and he yelled at me and he hit me too!"

Molly narrowed her eyes and looked toward the bedroom. "Where is your dad?"

"Getting dressed I guess." He shrugged and rubbed his eyes.

"Well why don't you gather some of the toys you want to take with you and put them in…" Molly looked around and finally spotted a large shopping bag. "Put them in this bag."

"I can't," Gabriel replied. "Dad told me to sit on the couch and not move until we got ready to walk out the door. But my shoes are still in my room!"

Mary rose. "I'll go get your shoes and then we'll pack up your toys together."

Molly left the others and made her way down the hall and into Sherlock's room. His own case was still open, halfway packed. She could smell the intoxicating scent of his shampoo, shaving lotion and aftershave. It made Molly's heart flutter and she had to gather herself before she went around the corner into the bath. "Sherlock?" she called.

"Yeah?" he replied. She could already tell from his tone that his tether was about to snap.

"Can I help?"

"Can you stop time?" he asked, running a brush through his hair. "Perhaps you have a gun."

"Sherlock—"

"Just… you should probably leave me alone, Molly. I don't want to say something to unintentionally hurt your feelings."

Molly crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, staring up at him with a defiant glare. "I'm a big girl. So spill it. What the hell has crawled up your ass today, Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes and zipped up his shaving kit. "Charming." He pushed past her and tossed the smaller bag into his suitcase.

"No, seriously. What is the matter with you? Obviously you and Gabe had a fight and I refuse to believe that it's just because you're… how did he say it… mean."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "I told Gabriel to get his clothes into his suitcase no less than three times. I go downstairs to finish getting dressed and I hear a thud and a crash, so I run back upstairs thinking that I'm going to find somebody dead, at the very least. Gabe and the dog have, in their playing, knocked over one of Mrs. Hudson's planters, spilling dirt and water everywhere and then in his bedroom, a lamp which has now shattered all over the floor. I'm also seeing that not only has Gabe not finished packing, but he's pulled out most of the things that I put into the case for him! So when I find them, hiding in John's room and acting like nothing much is going on, I lost it. I admit it, I snapped. I swatted him on his backside and banished him to the couch until it was time to leave. Miraculously, everything is packed."

"Okay, so Gabe's being a pain. He's a child, that's kind of his job. But you handled it. So why are you still so… prickly?"

Sherlock shook his head and closed his case. "It's nothing."

"Obviously it is," Molly replied, laying her hand on his arm. "So tell me what's wrong?"

He paused, staring at her hand, pale and perfect, against the dark wool of his black jumper. "I'm… not exactly looking forward to this little trip down memory lane. I haven't been to Ambergris in more than twenty years for a reason. My…_father_… was an abusive, philandering drunk and my mother was a weak little bird trapped in a cage made of money and privilege. Mycroft is more than happy to forget all of that. After all, he didn't witness very much of it. Boarding school is a wonderful blindfold, but I can't block it out. I remember every… single… incident. I remember my mother crying all day and not getting out of bed. I remember my father beating the hell out of me with a belt when I wasn't much older than Gabe and when my mother interfered, he went after her as well. These are not happy, holiday memories, Molly."

"So… why are we going, then?"

"Because… apparently, it means a great deal to Mycroft. This was his gift to everyone. Maybe he wants to try and exorcise some demons. He says he wants Gabriel to have a nice holiday and so do I... I'm just afraid that…" He started to say more as he stared into Molly's deep, understanding eyes, but the words wouldn't come. "Let's just go. We're going to miss our train."

**OoOoOo**

The station was buzzing with multitudes of people rushing back and forth. All of them on their way to holidays or whatever it is people did after Christmas. Gabriel held Sherlock's hand tightly, a little overwhelmed by all the activity. He'd never been on a train before and he was a bit apprehensive. Cat whined from her kennel and Gabriel could relate. The earlier row with his father had been forgotten, but now he was excited, yet worried about going to a new place. And of course, he was never comfortable with crowds of people.

They started on to the escalator and Gabe faltered. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, stumbling as Gabriel stood rooted to his spot.

"I don't like those," he said, pointing at the escalator. "Can't we take the stairs?"

"We'd have to go all the way across the station. Come on, Gabe," Sherlock sighed. "We're going to miss the train if we don't hurry up." He tugged at the boy's hand gently.

"Nooo..." Gabe whined. "I don't like them, Dad."

"God, Gabriel… really? It's just an escalator." Gabriel looked up at him and shook his head, his lip trembling. Sherlock sighed and handed his shoulder bag to John. "Come on then," he said, hoisting Gabriel up on his hip and starting up the escalator. He smiled mischievously and ran up the moving staircase, making Gabriel giggle.

"Was Mycroft meeting us here?" Molly asked.

"I think he was going to come in tonight sometime," John replied. "Sherlock hasn't really said much about it."

"He's a bit prickly today, isn't he?"

"Sherlock always gets angry when he's unsure. Hopefully, once we get there, he'll relax a bit."

Molly sighed. "I hope so. I'm not sure I can stand it for very long."

"You should live with him," John chuckled.

**OoOoOo**

A train ride that should have taken two hours ended up being more like three and a half. The snow had slowed things down considerably and apparently some altercation at one of the stops had delayed the train even further so that by the time they arrived at Ambergris, the sun had already begun to sink below the horizon. Gabriel had fallen asleep on the train for the last half hour of their trip and refused to awaken once they arrived in the station. He'd slept on Sherlock's shoulder through the station at Rye, through the line at the car hire and finally managed to come to as they were driving down the coastal road to the cottage. "Dad… my arm hurts," he yawned.

"All right. It's only another couple of miles to the house. I'll get the paracetamol out of the shoulder bag when we get there." Sherlock looked up into the rearview mirror to be sure that John and Mary were still following.

Molly turned in her seat and rummaged around. "Mrs. Hudson, I think the bag is under your feet, actually. I'll go ahead and find the paracetamol."

Gabriel whined. "It really hurts."

"I know, darling. I'll find it," Molly said, taking the bag from Mrs. Hudson and looking through it. After several moments she looked up. "Sherlock, did you remember to pack the paracetamol?"

He glanced beside him. "I think so. I pulled everything out of the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and put it into the bag."

"Are you sure? Because I'm not seeing it," she replied.

"I'm pretty sure," he sighed. "But I'm kind of driving the car at the moment and I can't stop to look." He gave a signal and turned down the sandy stretch of road that would lead to the house. "We'll be there in just a second."

Gabriel was whimpering and snuggling against Mrs. Hudson. She tried to soothe him, but it was getting harder. Catastrophe was whining right along with him from her tiny kennel, partly from being cooped up, partly because surely she needed to walk again. For a moment Sherlock was sure that he was going to lose his mind, but a momentary look in the mirror told him that Gabe was indeed in pain. "Sherlock, I don't think the medicine got into the bag," Molly said, bracing herself for a rant.

"It must be. I took it out of the medicine cupboard, took it into the bedroom where the shoulder bag was laying open…" His voice trailed off. "Ohhh… that was when Gabriel knocked over the planter. I bet all the medicine is still sitting on the bed."

Molly dropped the bag and looked up at Sherlock, her brown eyes wide and frantic. "Wait… _all_ of the medicine?"

"Well, everything that was in the medicine cupboard in my bathroom."

"Shit…" she grumbled.

"What's the big deal? We'll go down to the chemist and pick up some more paracetamol. It will be fine," he sighed, turning the car up the driveway.

Molly gritted her teeth and leaned closer to Sherlock, lowering her voice to a whisper. "It will not be fine. My birth control pills were in your cupboard."

"Why?"

"Because I've spent more nights in your bed than my own in the last month and I wanted to be sure I had them for this holiday, idiot."

Sherlock stopped the car in front of the cottage and banged his head against the steering wheel. "We're here," he whined.

Calling Ambergris a cottage was a severe understatement. The enormous two story Victorian sat perched atop a rocky dune just above the water. A large wraparound balcony littered with rocking chairs and chaises stretched across the back of the house looking toward the ocean. It was surrounded on three sides by a gate overgrown with ivy and there was another porch across the front with a very inviting looking porch swing. "God," Mary sighed, stretching as she got out of the other car. "I thought you said this was a summer cottage."

"Cottage is relative," Sherlock sighed, pulling the cases out of the boot of the car. He pulled his coat closer around himself. The wind off of the ocean was strong and frigid. "Gabe, where is your coat?"

"We're going inside," the boy replied, breaking away from Mrs. Hudson and running up the front steps.

The others followed suit, leaving Sherlock and John standing in the drive with all the bags. Sherlock stared up at the house. It looked so foreboding in the fading light and he gave a shiver. John clapped him on the shoulder. "It's a beautiful place, mate."

"Yeah. My mum did love it here."

John smiled, understanding creeping over his features. "It's going to be a good time, Sher. The past is in the past. Just leave it there."

Sherlock didn't answer for several moments, just staring at the house that loomed over them. The shadows of his past were everywhere, but he was determined not to look for things that weren't there. "It will. There's no such thing as ghosts, right?"


	31. This Kingdom By the Sea

**A/N: Happy New Year! Thanks to all the great reviewers! I'm so inspired right now! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel, Catastrophe and Ambergris.**

"It's all right. We'll get it." John grumbled as he and Sherlock stumbled up the porch steps and through the doors of the foyer. The girls turned and chuckled at their appearance before rushing forward to take bags from around their necks and suitcases out of their hands. "Well I didn't mean to put you out or anything."

"Oh, don't be such a grouch, Dr. Watson," Mary scolded, kissing his nose. "Besides, despite all this rampant feminism, two rules hold true: Men carry the bags and men kill the bugs. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is."

"Don't listen to them, Gabriel," John said. "The women will brainwash you." Mary pinched his arm as they followed Sherlock up the stairs.

"God, Sherlock…" Molly sighed, linking her arm with Mrs. Hudson's and helping her up the stairs. "This place just goes on and on." They arrived on the second floor where a large, open gallery with exposed rafters led into bedrooms.

"Four bedrooms up here and two downstairs. Two of the rooms have baths and there's another large bath between the other two rooms. They should all be ready for occupancy. Mycroft said everything would be aired out and clean." Sherlock smiled as everyone scattered, anxious to see which room they'd be in. He glanced at Molly, who stood there with her hands clasped in front of her as if she were afraid to touch anything. Her eyes were all over the place and she chewed her lip to the point it was red and puffy. "Come on, Miss Molly… I have our room all picked out." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully and took her hand, leading her toward the last room at the end of the hall. With a quick wink he opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her to go in first.

The master suite was exactly as he remembered it from when he was a child. A dark wood, four poster bed stood at one side, opposite a set of French doors that opened out onto a small balcony overlooking the ocean. Everything was in shades of ivory and blue, matched to a Persian rug that covered the hardwood floor. A fireplace had already been lit on the other side of the room, giving off a pleasant warmth. "Wow…" Molly sighed. "This… this house is yours?"

"Well, technically it's mine and Mycroft's, but yes." He hoisted his and Molly's suitcases up on to the bed. He could tell by the way she was shifting from one foot to another that she was nervous. She wandered around the room, examining everything but still not touching anything. As she approached the bookshelf, she reached out to brush her fingertips along the spines of the books but then thought better of it and folded her arms over her chest again. "What's the matter?"

"I just… wow, Sherlock. I never thought that… I mean, I assumed your family had money… but… posh doesn't even begin to describe this place. It's… magnificent. Like something out of a Jane Austen book."

He smiled. "It's just a house. It's remained largely unchanged since my great- grandparents built it. A throwback to Victorian opulence. Very silly if you ask me."

"And that is precisely why… I'm just… not…" She chuckled nervously and shook her head. "My dad was a plumber. My mom was a teacher. I just… I can't compete with this, Sherlock."

"Why on earth would you think you had to?"

"I don't know," she sighed, shivering. "I just can't help wondering what your mother would say about us. She'd probably think I wasn't good enough for you." She went to the bed and threw open her suitcase, starting to unpack things. Mostly just to have something to do with her hands.

Sherlock sidled up behind her, winding his arms around her waist and kissing the back of her neck. "My mother would have adored you, Molly. She never gave a damn about how much money a person had. On the contrary, she was fond of saying that the more money a person had the less she liked them. My father was always the one who was such a snob. Which was ironic, really, considering that though he had a surname steeped in nobility and class, until he married my mother, the Holmeses had been pretty damn near penniless since the first World War."

"Really? You think your mother would have…adored me?" Molly blushed, her body relaxing against his as they stared out at the ocean.

"I'm sure of it. Of course, she'd have thought our sleeping together without being married was pretty scandalous. But she was old-fashioned that way."

"My father was the same. But as I always told him, love has very little to do with pieces of paper and rituals." She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck, stretching up to kiss him. "And I do love you, Mr. Holmes." He was quick to oblige and embraced her tightly, pulling her body close.

"Oh God…again?"

Sherlock and Molly broke their kiss and turned to see Gabriel leaning haughtily in the doorway. "Can we help you?" Sherlock teased.

"My arm still hurts. Did you find my medicine? And Cat is whining, can we let her out of the kennel?"

"No, we have to go to the chemist, and yes. But as soon as you let her out, you'll have to take her out for a walk." Gabriel sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh and if you take her out, you better clean up after her. No dog poo on the beach."

"Eww!" Gabe exclaimed. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"You're a smart kid. You'll figure it out." Sherlock smirked. He was enjoying this. Molly elbowed him. "See if John will help you."

**OoOoOo**

Surprisingly, it only took an hour to get everything unpacked and everyone settled in at Ambergris. Mary had even managed to find a pre-measured dose of kids' paracetamol in the depths of her purse for Gabe. The genius of hiring a nanny who then became your flatmate's girlfriend.

"So I made a list of everything we'd need from the market," Mrs. Hudson offered, waving a slip of paper and then placing it on the coffee table. "But my hip is bothering me after all that riding, so I'm not going."

They all looked to Sherlock who was sitting up in his thinking pose. His eyes shifted sideways and he sighed. "You know how I hate… people." He nudged Molly as she dozed against his shoulder. "Don't you want to go to the market, Molly?"

In the past, Molly would have jumped up and gone immediately to a store fifty miles underground to fetch Sherlock his favorite type of toothpaste. Now she gave him a look like he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. "No. I really don't." He started to say something else and she shushed him with a shake of her head. "Please don't flatter me. I'm not going."

"I want to go!" Gabriel offered, upsetting Cat who gave a peeved bark before settling back into his lap.

"You can't drive," Sherlock sighed.

"Oh for God's sake," John sighed. "I'll go." He reached down and grabbed the list, going over the items and adding a few.

"Oh Molly…" Mary started. "Wasn't there something… some… item that you needed to get?"

Molly stared at her dumbly, not remembering what she'd forgotten at home. "Uhm… what?"

"You know… that medicine that you forgot?"

"Yeah, paracetamol's on the list," John said, pointing it out and showing Mary.

"Not just that. It's something that Molly will have to go to the chemist for." She shot John a murderous glare and he looked just as clueless as Molly. "Something _very_ important."

"It's her medicine that keeps her from having a baby," Gabriel said matter of factly. "Dad left it on the bed when I broke the plant." He didn't bat an eyelash or even look up from his book as he made the statement. Nor did he even realize that he was not supposed to have any idea about such things. Apparently his skills of observation were more keen than anyone had realized. Finally he turned, his nose crinkled with confusion. "How do girls get babies anyway? Is it in the water? Is that why they have to take medicine?"

One could hear the breeze as everyone whipped their heads toward Sherlock, who was obviously still trudging through his mind palace. He did, however, notice everyone looking at him and so he just replied, "Yes."

"Uhm… yeah… so Mary and myself will go to the market—"

"John! I want to go," Gabriel whined, pushing Cat to the floor and getting to his feet. "Please?"

"If your dad says it's ok."

"Yes, please take devil child with you," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave. "See if you can trade him for something quieter."

"Dad!" Gabriel giggled, climbing into Sherlock's lap, completely ignoring the "thinking pose."

"And one that isn't broken would be nice."

"Dad!"

Molly chimed in. "And preferably a self-cleaning one."

"Molly!" Gabriel feigned shock and betrayal. "You can't trade me."

"Probably not," Sherlock continued. "This one's damaged, so it wouldn't be an even trade. They might take him as a down payment." Molly nodded. "And of course, he is rather small."

"Well they say small ones are sweeter."

**OoOoOo**

Molly fell asleep on the fluffy couch by the window. Evidently Sherlock or someone had covered her with a quilt, for she was warm and cozy when she awoke. So warm and cozy that for a moment she forgot where she was. Everyone was gone save for the ever-present Catastrophe who had made herself comfortable in the bend behind Molly's knees. She yawned and stretched, carefully sliding out from under the dog. "What happened to everyone, Cat?" The puppy answered with a squeaky yawn and then her head sank back down.

Molly stood and looked out the window. It was dark already and the waves were wild. She could see the lines of foam riding on the crests of the swells as they crashed against the shore. "How very Lord Byron," she remarked to herself and as if on cue, the sound of dark piano music floated through the house. Wrinkling her nose with wonder, she began following the sound through the endless halls of the ground floor. The corridors were lined with paintings and old daguerreotype photographs in varying sizes and mismatched frames. She would have to ask Sherlock about some of them later, as it was obvious that some weren't as old as the rest. She thought she recognized Sherlock and Mycroft in a few of them. One photo was of a beautiful, tall woman standing on the beach barefooted with mounds of dark curls blowing in the ocean breeze and eyes like ice that were very familiar.

She continued until she came to an open room with a large bay window overlooking the ocean. There was a fluffy windowseat and bookshelves. But the focal point was an enormous grand piano of dark polished wood. Sherlock sat at the piano playing, a haunting melody that Molly thought she might recognize. For a moment she stood there, transfixed, watching him play. She hadn't realized that he could play anything other than the violin that he excelled in. His long, sinuous fingertips moved effortlessly along the keys and his sooty black eyelashes lay against his cheek. There was no music in front of him and Molly could tell that he was playing solely from memory. In this light, lost in the sound of the music and relaxed, he looked like a totally different person. She hadn't taken much notice before in their rush, but now she could see that he was wearing the same dark blue jeans he'd worn on their first official date and a close cut black jumper, high at the neck and narrow at the waist. Between that and the unkempt curls that had been so tossed by the ocean air, he looked positively radiant. Like the statue of some Roman god. Suddenly the air was too close and her body too warm. She went to the window and pressed her cheek against the cool glass, the mist left behind telling the tale of her shortened breath.

"Molly." It wasn't a question. She had been so lost in her own lascivious thoughts that she hadn't noticed that he'd stopped playing.

"Hmm?" she asked, walking over to him, trying not to stumble.

"Are you all right?"

She approached him, kneeling behind him and wrapping her arms around his chest. She pressed her cheek against the warm ridge of his spine. "I am… utterly spellbound by you, Mr. Holmes. No matter how hard I try, you never fail to take my breath away." Sherlock spun on the piano stool and stared down at her. Clasping her face gently in his hands he leaned in and kissed her. Lazy feathers of his generous lips against hers was all, but his kiss held the answers to every question she'd ever had about love. "I know it's positively sacrilegious and wicked, but I worship you, Sherlock. Ever since the first time I saw you."

"It's very wicked, Dr. Hooper. I'm hardly worthy of such affection." He grabbed her arm just above the elbow and guided her off of her knees so that she stood in front of him, her fingertips combing through his hair. Her cropped sweatshirt rose slightly, exposing a patch of smooth, pale skin. Sherlock moved the fabric aside with the tip of his nose and kissed the soft spot just over her navel. "I'm glad you're here."

Suddenly, the house shuddered with the sound of the front door banging open. "Damnit," Molly growled. "Every time…"

Sherlock grinned and stood up. "It's a long week and this is a big house," he whispered in her ear, taking her hand and leading her toward the lounge where the shoppers had returned. To their surprise, all three of the weary travelers were in good spirits. Gabriel was even helping unpack the groceries and put them away.

"Hey, Mols!" Mary shouted. "Heads up." She tossed a round case of pills in her direction. "The chemist said just to be sure you start in the right place or you'll be knocked up for sure."

"Rudeness!" Molly sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"Oooh… perhaps it's already too late," Mary purred.

John laughed and put his hands over Gabe's ears. "There's far too much sex going on between those two."

"In my experience there can never be too much," Mary replied.

"Hey!" Gabriel complained. "I never get to hear the good stuff."

"Trust me. It's for the best," Sherlock grumbled. John put his hand on his friend's shoulder and nudged him toward the pantry.

"Come here a minute," John whispered.

Sherlock followed and went into the pantry with John, closing the door behind them. "What is it? Did Gabe do something at the market?"

"No… nothing like that. I just thought you should know. Uhm… were you aware that your male child doesn't know how to uhm… you know… go to the bathroom standing up."

Sherlock laughed. "What?"

"No really, Sherlock. He had to go while we were out and so I took him to the Men's toilet and all the stalls were taken, so… when he didn't move toward the urinal, I questioned him about it and he said that he had never…"

"Well I suppose it's not surprising. I mean, if you'd been raised by a bunch of nuns, you probably wouldn't either. Trust me, I spoke to one of them on the phone several weeks ago and I'm not sure they're even aware of what makes a boy a boy."

"Well… do you think he is?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, John. I think Gabriel knows that he has different sexual organs than say Molly or Mary. So what did you do?"

"I let him wait until a stall opened up. I didn't know what you would want me to do."

"Well I hope you didn't act like he was an alien like you are now." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well of course I didn't say anything. I just thought you might want to know."


	32. Undertoes, pt1

**A/N: Alright kids, a new chapter in this MONSTROUS story. I hope you are enjoying. This story is actually spoiler free for those for whom it might be important. I hope you like it! Thanks again to Empress of Verace, Librasmiles, Rocking the Redhead, Itamonster and all those others who are faithful readers and reviewers. You guys inspire me more than you know! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel.**

Gabriel was bored. Horrendously bored. Ridiculously bored. And the worst part? No one cared. It had started when he got up that morning and everyone seemed more interested in their breakfasts and tea than talking to him. Adults could be such gits. He had tried to suggest going out on the beach for a walk with Cat, but they complained it was too cold. Then he tried to amuse himself watching telly. But the television here was old and decrepit. It only got five channels and all of them stunk. There wasn't even a BluRay player. Even Cat had betrayed him. She opted to lay on Molly's lap and snooze while she read a book. When Mary came down from her shower, Gabriel saw a tiny glimmer of hope. Mary was always up for a game. She could always manage to find some interesting way of amusing him. Last week when he'd been particularly peevish because of his broken arm, he and Mary had painted pictures whilst holding the brush between their teeth like some famous artist with no arms. When they were done, the paintings were abstract, as his father had called them, and they were covered in paint. But it was fun. Gabe hadn't been bored at all that day. But when she came down this morning, she immediately snuggled up with John and they completely ignored him. Even Doctor Molly had shouted at him when he finally managed to coax Cat into a game of chase. It's not like he meant for the dog to bound over the couch, stepping on her as she tried to read.

"Dad," Gabriel sighed, pushing a folder out of Sherlock's lap so that he could climb up. "I'm bored."

"Funny. You look like my son, Gabriel," Sherlock replied dismissively, leaning over to retrieve the folder that was now lying on the floor at his feet.

"What can I dooooo?" Gabriel whined, dragging his words out in a way he knew would dance on his father's nerves.

"Read a book."

"Done that."

"Play Solitaire."

"Cards are boring by yourself."

"Draw a picture."

"Done it already. I didn't bring my crayons. Just pencils."

Sherlock sighed, mumbling something about karma and one tiny sperm with a sense of direction. "This house is enormous, Gabe. And Mycroft and I were here a lot as children and we were never bored. Why don't you go exploring and see if you can't find some adventure on your own? The bedrooms downstairs were ours. There might even be old toys or something."

John piped up. "You had toys?"

"They were like toys," Sherlock replied with an exasperated quirk of his eyebrows.

Gabriel rolled his eyes and slid off of Sherlock's lap and onto the floor, stomping across the room. "I thought this was supposed to be fun. Can't we go to the beach or something?"

"It's so cold, Gabe," Molly said. "And it looks like rain. Wouldn't you rather stay here where it's warm?"

"That's what coats and scarves are for," he replied darkly.

"Chin up, chum," Mary said, coming around the corner with another cup of tea. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Later we'll all play a game and have dinner. But for now, people just want to be in the quiet."

"I hate quiet," Gabriel mumbled, scuffing his feet against the floor as he ambled down the hallway.

**OoOoOo**

As soon as Gabriel was gone, John burst into peals of maniacal laughter. "Oh there is a God!" he exclaimed as soon as he was able. The others, immediately getting the joke, joined in. The others, save for Sherlock who had barely noticed they were in the room. "At least I left the gun at home."

"What are you talking about, John?" Sherlock sighed.

"Who did that sound like just now?"

Molly giggled and turned the page of her book. "I wonder."

"If you're implying that _I'm_ easily bored… Of course I'm easily bored. People of extraordinary intellect often are," Sherlock said, pushing his shoulders back and taking on an air of superiority. "Doesn't make it any less irritating in others."

The group sat in silence for over an hour, each person lost in the welcome quiet of Ambergris and the constant ebb of the tide coming in just below the house. John and Mary snuggled up on the sofa watching an old movie quietly on telly, Mrs. Hudson at the dining room table with a puzzle and Sherlock still pouring over his case file. The afternoon had caught up to them. Finally, Molly stood up and stretched, dropping her book on the coffee table. "Well… I think I'm due for a nap." As she passed, she drew a gentle fingertip along Sherlock's shoulder. "You look sleepy too," she mumbled. He looked up and she gave a devious smile before continuing up the stairs.

"I think I'll have a nap too," he sighed, feigning a yawn for effect. "Something about the ocean air makes one so… lazy." He disappeared up the stairs after Molly and John chuckled to himself.

"And horny."

**OoOoOo**

The room Gabriel found himself in was most indeed his father's old room. He could tell by the bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Books on every subject were there: history, music, animals and medicine. Books with leather spines that were heavy and smelled of linseed oil and dust. There were also books of amazing stories with colorful illustrations on the covers and inside. The most worn of these was something called Treasure Island. Gabriel smiled, opening it up to look at the pictures. There was an enormous ship, dark waves and a magnificent pirate flashing a gold-toothed grin at him from the title page. "Long John Silver," Gabriel read slowly, running his fingers over the name underneath the illustration. He glanced at the inside cover and recognized the scrawling script of his father. "This book is the property of Sherlock Holmes. 1985," Gabriel read, fascinated to find evidence that his father had once been small like him.

_"I'll remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door."_ Gabriel read slowly, sounding out the words as Sherlock, Mary and John had taught him, but they didn't make much sense. Luckily, there was an illustration on the page opposite that showed a man, old and gristly, with a pegged leg and dirty hair, walking through a door. "Oh… the guy's a pirate. Wicked." Gabriel continued reading as much of it as he could, checking for pictures and piecing the story together as best he could. The book was heavy and hard to decipher, but Gabe was pretty proficient at making it up as he went along. By the time the sun started to fall toward the horizon, he was ready to dig for buried treasure.

Gabriel ran down the hall and into the lounge, expecting to see everyone still there. The room was deserted. His smile fell and he wrinkled his nose, wondering where they'd all gone. Probably napping, he thought. Adults liked to sleep too much. Well, he wasn't going to spend the whole week waiting for them to wake up. After all, his dad had told him to go find some adventure on his own. Gabe shrugged and took his coat and scarf, wrapping up as he walked out the back door and on to the sand.

He'd have to hurry or Captain Silver would leave him behind.

**OoOoOo**

The sun was just barely winking above the horizon when Molly woke up. The orangey fire of sunset was streaming through the large windows that looked out over the beach below. She slid out from under the quilt, careful not to jostle Sherlock too much. As she stood up, pulling her comfy worn jeans back on, she almost laughed at the contortion of her lover. On a normal day, when his mind was racing and he was only sleeping grudgingly, Sherlock lay on his back with his hands laced together in the middle of his chest. His sleeping position not all that different from his thinking position. Of course, when he was relaxed… really relaxed, or exhausted, he lay on his stomach. His face was hidden by the pillow, spidery limbs splayed akimbo. He was covered by the fluffy quilt to the waist, but obviously he'd gotten hot as one leg had found its way out from under, exposing one long, lean leg all the way to the waist. Molly's eyes followed the line of his thigh muscle from the back of his knee all the way to the terminus at his pelvic bone. For a moment she considered brushing her fingertips, or even her lips, across it. But that would lead to more "napping" and it was already time for afternoon tea. Not to mention the fact that she was already limping.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, kneeling down beside the bed, her lips mere centimeters from his ear. "Wake up…"

"Mmmm…" he replied, turning his head to escape.

She chuckled and combed her fingers through his riotous curls. "Come on, sleepy. It's time for tea. And to talk about dinner…"

"I don't eat when I'm working," he mumbled, brushing his hand through the air as if to swat a fly.

"You don't sleep either, remember?" Leaning in she kissed the crest of his cheekbone, then his temple, then his forehead until finally he rolled over, opening his eyes and staring at her. He blinked, trying to focus, then yawned and stretched, pulling the quilt around him.

"How long did we sleep?"

"Well the actual sleeping was about an hour and a half," Molly replied. "We'd better go downstairs before the others give us up for dead and eat without us."

By the time Sherlock and Molly descended the stairs, everyone was milling around between the lounge and kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was pulling biscuits out of the oven. "Well we wondered what had happened to you," she called. "We almost went up to find you."

"Then we thought we'd be blinded for life, so we decided that some things are better left unknown," John said, stealing one of the warm biscuits off the tray. "Kettle's just boiled."

"Cute," Sherlock sighed, yawning once more and flopping down on a stool. "Where's Gabe?"

"We thought he was with you," Mary said. Sherlock shrugged and walked down the hall toward the bedrooms. "Oooh John, look. The little cinema down the road is showing Casablanca tonight. We should go."

"The larger cinema in town is showing 47 Ronin," John said. "Wouldn't you rather see that?"

"Uhm… no," Mary sighed.

"Guys…" Sherlock called, coming back. "Where's Gabriel?"

"He's probably just taking a nap in his room. I'll go look," John said. Several minutes later he came back down. "Uhm… no. He's not upstairs. And the dog is gone too." They began to race around the perimeter of the house, calling Gabriel and Cat, looking in all the closets, the basement, all the bedrooms, but no luck.

"He isn't on the beach. At least not out here," Mrs. Hudson shouted in from the patio.

Sherlock pushed past them and ran out onto the beach, his feet bare and no jacket, but not noticing the cold. He called out for Gabriel as he ran down the beach. Something caught his eye just at the edge of the surf. When Molly and John caught up to him, he was examining the item: a purple and gray striped scarf that looked just like the one Gabriel had gotten for Christmas.


	33. Undertoes, pt 2

**A/N: A new update! And this one's a bit longer. I hadn't intended to update this week, but it seemed that I made you all antsy with the last chapter. So here it is. I'm not sure I assuaged your fears though...LOL**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel and Cat.**

Gabriel carried the old bag down the beach, heavy laden with shells. He only had the one good arm right now and the weight of the bag was making the handle dig into his fingertips. He didn't care. The old potato sack he'd found buried in the sand was a moldy old chest and the seashells inside a pile of jewels, nicked from the clutches of the Royal Navy. But time was short. They were onto him. He'd have to bury the treasure quickly before Silver and his crew caught up! Cat barked as she ran ahead, scoping out for signs of the British Naval officers that would be hot on their trail. Not to mention the band of pirates that were sure to come seeking the wealth that he had managed to trick them out of. But no matter. He was Captain Holmes, Master of the Spanish Main and the most fearsome pirate in all the world!

"Hurry up, ya scurvy sea rat!" he shouted at Cat. They were in luck today. The beach was secluded. No one would be the wiser when he found his secret trapdoor. The heavy wooden door, moldy with ages of salt water and sand, that would hide his treasure trove. Finding a space on the sand, just under a large rock that protruded from the surf, he began to dig. He squatted down, rummaging through the bag for the shell he'd picked out to serve as his shovel. Cat ran over and licked his face. Gabriel giggled as she bowled him over, making him sit down on the damp sand. "Uggh… Cat! Now my pants are all wet." He scratched her behind the ears and put the "chest" in front of her. "You guard this while I dig." Taking a large, round shell with a sharp edge, he began to dig down into the sand. It was cold and gloppy, but he liked the way the grains felt against his fingers. He gasped with surprise when he realized that the further he dug, the more water was seeping into his hole. "Neat. Cat, did you know that there's water under the sand?" The dog whined in reply and lay down beside him, shivering with the chilly breeze off of the ocean.

By the time Gabe had finished burying his treasure, the sun was well below the horizon. Everything had turned a blue-gray color and the cold had made his fingers, nose and cheeks practically numb. "Oh wow, Cat. It's almost dark. Guess we better go home, huh?" The dog barked in reply and stood up, looking back toward the house. "Yeah… I bet it's time to eat dinner now. I hope we're having something good." Gabriel stood and looked around, squinting into the near darkness, looking for the house. "Where's the house, Cat?" Suddenly he realized that the large, white cottage with its ivy-colored gate was nowhere to be found. In fact, there were only a few wooden houses on this end of the beach, most of them small and desolate. The beach itself looked like a land of ghosts with the sand blowing in the wind and the scrubby trees along the dunes. It really did look like something out of Treasure Island. He shivered in the cold and pulled his jacket tighter around him, cradling his casted arm against his chest. It had started to ache with the cold and damp of the impending night. . "Oh no, Cat…" he sighed, a slight tremble in his voice. "I think we're lost." The puppy barked in response as if scolding the boy. "I know, I know… Dad's going to kill me."

**OoOoOo**

"I'm going to kill him," Sherlock grumbled as he tore through the house, looking for his shoes.

"Just calm down, mate. He couldn't have gone too far," John tried to reason as he stood helpless in the middle of the room. Molly, Mary and Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch like pigeons on an electric line, watching Sherlock pace back and forth. They hadn't bothered to offer any words of comfort or wisdom, knowing that they'd be met with the fiery wrath of scared Sherlock.

"Really? And when did you last see him? Noon? One o'clock? It's now five, John! Plenty of time for him to have been snatched by a psychotic or run over by a lorry on the street!"

"Oh I think we'd have heard if a child had been hit by a lorry," Mrs. Hudson offered. Everyone turned to look at her. She blushed and shrugged.

"Why weren't you watching him?" Sherlock snapped, turning on John.

"Oi! Why weren't you? Oh that's right, you were upstairs having a shag!"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson gasped. "At my time of life..."

"Oh shut it!" they exclaimed in unison.

"Boys!" Mary shouted, taking to her feet and stepping between them. "It won't help us find Gabe if we're sniping at one another."

"It's all my fault," Molly sighed. "If I hadn't insisted on…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary interrupted. "It's all our faults. None of us seemed to have time for Gabriel today. We told him to amuse himself, but then we just sort of forgot about him. You two went upstairs for your nap, John and I went down to the shops, none of checking in on him."

"No," Mrs. Hudson sniffled. "I had one of my soothers and sat on the porch with my tea and a book. I'm the most to blame. I should have at least checked in when it was time for lunch." She put her face in her hands and cried softly.

"See… you've upset Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted at Sherlock, crossing his arms haughtily over his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved his foot down into his shoe. "It doesn't matter. I'm going to look for him."

"Do you think we should call someone?" Molly asked.

"Like who?" Sherlock replied.

"I dunno… the police?"

Sherlock gave a mirthless chuckle and stood up, grabbing his coat as he rushed to the door. "As if the local police could do a better job of finding him than Sherlock Holmes."

**OoOoOo**

"I hope we're going the right way, Cat," Gabe sighed, hugging the dog against his chest as best he could. His arm hurt and he was so cold, but now was not the time for crying no matter how much he might want to. The wind whipped around his cheeks, chapping them and the sand tore at his skin. The beach was dark now and he could hear the waves off to his left, but he couldn't see them. That gave him the most curious sense of foreboding. Like any second he was afraid that he would suddenly lose his sense of direction and walk off into the ocean. Before there had at least been a few people walking up the road and even an old man and his dog, but now he was completely alone. No longer did he feel like brave Captain Holmes. He was a scared little boy who wanted his daddy. Even though he knew that Sherlock would be furious with him, probably more angry than he ever had been before, Gabriel knew that he would be safe, warm and forgiven in his father's arms.

"There's some lights up there," Gabriel said. "Maybe that's where the house is. Or at least some nice people with a phone." Gabriel ran over the numbers for his dad's mobile and John's in his head. That was one of the first things they'd taught him, predicting that this might happen someday. This was not the first time that Gabe had gotten lost wandering on the wings of some imagined adventure. That was how he'd fallen in the river behind St. Christopher's. It was a cool spring day and the first day it hadn't rained in a month. Gabe had been itching to get outside and finally after Mass that morning, he'd managed to get free and run outside. Everything smelled so fresh and clean and the sun was so warm on his face. He lay in the grass for a while before becoming fascinated with an unusual looking old tree at the edge of the forest. He fancied that the knots on the trunk were secret doorknobs and if he could just find the right one, he would be led into fairyland by Queen Mab herself. Unfortunately, he hadn't found fairyland. Only the icy cold waters of the tributary that ran just behind the gardens. He slipped on a stone and tumbled over the ravine and into the rushing water below. It was deep and he'd tried to swim a little, but the water was so cold that all of his limbs locked up and then he was sinking. He didn't remember much about being in the water, only that ice cold water feels a lot like tiny needles stabbing you all over. Anyway, Mr. Rhys, the caretaker, had heard him screaming and pulled him out. Gabe had been really sick after that, but the adventure had been worth it.

Gabe hoped that a Mr. Rhys was going to come along this time.

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock was far ahead of them, clutching Gabriel's scarf and pausing every now and then to examine a footprint or a bit of shell. Molly had been whimpering steadily since they left the house. She walked beside Mary, their arms around one another and trying not to shudder with the falling temperature. "Oh Mary… Sherlock's going to kill Gabriel."

"No he's not," Mary chuckled.

"Yes he is!"

"No he is not. Sherlock is not going to _kill_ Gabriel."

John huffed. "He may have to get in line."

"If he's hurt, I'll never forgive myself," Molly sniffled. "We should have been watching him."

Mary hugged her friend tighter against her side. "We should have been, probably, but Gabe's big enough to know better than to go outside without an adult. In fact, I think we all told him that upon arrival. So it's no one's fault."

John stopped and took Molly's other hand. "I'm sure he's fine, Molly. Kids do silly things sometimes. My sister Harriet got lost at the mall like this once. My mum finally had to call the police to find her."

"Do you think we should have called the police?" Molly asked.

"If Sherlock can't find Gabriel, then no one can," John said, trying to be reassuring. "I mean, remember those kids in the candy factory. That was nothing short of miraculous." Sherlock stopped, pushing his fingers roughly through his hair and staring out at the ocean. "What is it?" John called.

"Before we left the house, I went to my old bedroom which is the last place I knew that Gabe was playing. Lying open on the bed was my old copy of Treasure Island. His coat and scarf were gone from the hook by the door, which means that he went outside on his own. Down the beach I found his scarf lying at the edge of the surf along with a place where the sand was disturbed. Obviously he found something just under the sand and unearthed it. With his broken arm, he couldn't carry both things, so he dropped the scarf, probably without realizing it. There's also the smaller, closer footprints of a dog beside the ones that are most definitely Gabe's, meaning that at least Catastrophe is with him. The prints continue in a zigzagged pattern down the beach and, at least in the dry sand close to the dune, you can still see that there are imprints where something small was partially buried in the sand and pulled up."

"Seashells?" John offered.

"Exactly. He was picking up shells. The shells, Treasure Island and being that he shares my own DNA, he was probably pretending to be a pirate and has gone off down the beach to bury his _treasure_ someplace."

"Excellent. So now we know how to entertain him," John sighed. "But where is he now?"

"God… how do you stumble through life without falling off a cliff? We'll find him where the pirate ship has landed, obviously."

"Oh God… he's lost it…" John sighed, his head in his hands.

"No! The pirate ship landing is what me and Mycroft used to call this outcropping of rocks about a mile down the beach. Its shape looks like the ruins of an old pirate ship. There are even barnacles clinging to the side. We used to play a game where whoever could get to the 'bow' first got to be the captain. Which basically meant, whichever couldn't be thrown off the rock by the other was the winner." Suddenly Sherlock turned and ran down the beach at top speed, knowing exactly where he'd find Gabriel.

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel stumbled along, knowing he must be near death at this point. The ache in his arm had grown to a steady throb and he had to put Cat down to hold it up. His belly rumbled, but it wasn't hunger. He'd decided that he was never again going to find his father or John or Molly and Mary and Mrs. Hudson ever again. Someday they'd find his bones, bleached white in the sun, covered in sand. Admittedly it was a terribly romantic way to die, but he'd rather be home in his nice warm bed with them. Of course, if he was alive when his father found him, he was sure to be dead soon after. But at least he'd wait to slaughter him until he was at home in the warm.

Gabriel stopped, hearing something in the dark behind him. It was so dark now, he couldn't see his hand in front of him, but the rest of his senses were keen. It sounded like something breathing. Something large and scary, stalking him in the distance. It breathed heavily, growling low and hissing in the dark. "Cat?" he whispered, hoping that maybe it was the little dog growling at a crab that was scurrying across the sand. The waves crashed hard on the beach ahead, startling him. And then there was the growl again. It was getting louder, seeming to call to him. "There's no such things as dragons, right Cat?" She whimpered and hid behind his legs. Yes, the dragon in his book. Enormous and terrifying with a voice like a giant snake mixed with the roar of a tiger. Its red body glowing orange just before it breathed fire. That is, if it didn't just devour him in one gulp. "I'm not scared of you, dragon!" Gabe shouted, grabbing up Cat and taking off, sprinting down the dark beach. He didn't get far before he ran headlong into the stalker in the dark.

"Gabriel!" it shouted and Gabe screamed, knowing that the terrible Wyrm of Gwynfir had him in his clutches! He kicked and screamed, beating his small fists against the chest of his foe.

"I buried the treasure, you stupid serpent! You'll never find it!" he shrieked, dropping Cat who growled and barked at the horrible creature.

"Gabriel! Stop! It's me!" As soon as the child's eyes adjusted, he nearly cried seeing Sherlock's face staring back at him.

Gabriel gave one more cry of relief and threw his arms around his father's neck. He felt the hot tears begin to tumble over his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, dad!"


	34. Walking the Plank

**A/N: Sorry this took so long. Sherlock was not cooperating. And before you get all upset... just bear with him to the end. Thanks again for all the reads and reviews, not just on this story but on the Sherlolly one-shots that I've been posting. Empress, Libra, Morbid, Rockin, Itamonster, new readers, old readers... you all rock my socks! Thanks again!**

Gabriel was shivering so hard that his lower lip, nearly blue from the cold, was trembling. His thin, windbreaker jacket that he'd thrown on was no match for the temperature on the beach. The wind felt like lashes against his face, neck and hands. His nose was running with it and his hair was wild, hanging around his face in sticky tendrils. He knew that he was in trouble. He knew that his father was seething with anger, but his coat was warm and Gabriel snuggled into it as far as he could get. He could see the others up ahead. John looked angry. No help there. Molly and Mary were wrapped around one another and they smiled with relief, reaching out to him as they approached, but Sherlock didn't stop. He walked past them without speaking, his long legs striding quickly back toward the house, but Gabe could hear them talking.

"Wow… I don't think I'd want to be in that kid's shoes tonight," Mary said, watching them pass.

"I knew it. He's going to kill him," Molly sighed.

"At least we found him," John grumbled, taking Mary's hand and leading them behind. "And Sherlock won't kill him. There's too many witnesses."

Gabriel wondered how long he'd been out. It felt like ages. He really hadn't meant to get so far away, he was just caught up in the game. And hadn't his father told him to go find some adventure on his own? It wasn't his fault if everyone was gone when he left. He'd tried to get them to play too. Suddenly he remembered that he'd left Cat behind. He shifted in Sherlock's arms and turned back. "We left Cat."

"She's a dog. She'll follow," Sherlock replied, his voice eerily monotonous. Sure enough, they could hear her bark as she scampered up the beach behind them. Molly cooed over the little thing and scooped it up into her arms, cuddling it against her.

Gabriel pressed his icy cold cheek against Sherlock's shoulder, trying to warm his nose under the fold of his scarf. It wasn't helping much and he started to whimper. "Dad, how much further is it? I'm cold. And my arm hurts bad."

"Not much. I can see the patio light."

Gabriel sighed and laid his head back down. In another few minutes they were walking up the back steps and into the warmth of Ambergris. Mrs. Hudson rose from the couch and rushed them, jerking Gabe from Sherlock's arms and hugging him tightly. "Oh you… beautiful… wonderful… horrible little boy!" she exclaimed, kissing his windburned cheeks. "If I were your mother, you'd get a good hiding for that little stunt, young man!" She paused and squeezed him tightly again. "But I'm just so glad you're ok."

"Of course I'm ok," he mumbled, squirming until Mrs. Hudson put him down. "I was just down the beach."

"Just down the beach?" Sherlock said. "Just a little ways down the beach? Do you have any idea how far 'a little ways' was, Gabe?" His voice was climbing in volume with every word and Molly took a step toward him. "You were so far away that we couldn't find you. We had to walk for almost an hour before stumbling into you! After dark. In the cold. With no idea where you were!"

"Sherlock…" Molly started, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged away and pushed his hands through his hair, shaking it out in a fashion that was almost frantic. "This is after looking all over and around the house! _After_ finding your scarf discarded at the edge of the surf so that it looked like you had wandered into the ocean and drowned! Or worse! We thought you were lost… kidnapped… God knows what!"

"But dad… you said…" Gabriel sniffled, his voice quavering.

"Said what? For a five year old to wander out of the house in the freezing cold? I've said some interesting things in my life, Gabriel, but I don't think that one ever crossed my mind!"

"You said to have an adventure on my own!" Gabriel shouted back, startling himself with the volume of his own voice. "And you wouldn't play with me!"

"I shouldn't have to play with you every minute!"

Gabriel sniffled. His eyes stung and he knew he was going to start crying, but this time he wasn't scared. He was angry. "I just asked you to do something with me. You like everyone else better than me!" He paused, mumbling under his breath. "I bet my mom would have liked me best."

Sherlock's eyes were wide and furious. He turned away, pacing with his fingertips steepled under his nose. He whipped around with such ferocity that Gabriel backed into Mrs. Hudson. He growled through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous. "You know who your mom liked best? Herself! She was a self-centered con artist who preferred the company of pathetic weaklings! She left me here all alone with you and I hate her!"

"Sherlock!" John interjected.

Gabriel was crying now, wiping at his eyes furiously with the back of his arm until they were red and swollen. "Is that why you let her leave me at that awful place with those awful people? Is that why you let her die?"

"She died because she was too stupid to run!"

"I hate you!" Gabriel spat, his voice thick with tears.

"Yeah? Well I hate you more, you little shit! You ruined my life!" Sherlock's words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous for several seconds before Gabriel turned and ran up the stairs.

Sherlock looked around, surprised at the anger and venom of his own words. He immediately regretted them and felt helpless as he stared at the dumbfounded faces of his friends. Realizing that there was nothing he could say, he retreated down the hall and into the music room, slamming the door behind him.

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs. Hudson said.

"A bit not good," Molly sighed. "Just a bit."

**OoOoOo**

Molly strolled down the stairs an hour later looking tired and sad. Poor Gabriel had cried while she helped him out of his clothes. He cried while he was in the hot bath she'd run for him. When Mrs. Hudson had brought up some soup and tea, he'd cried while he grudgingly ate it. The child was so inconsolable that Molly had tucked him into bed and held him, stroking his hair and letting him cry until the poor thing fell asleep, exhausted. He held the crumpled old picture of Irene clutched tightly in his fist the whole time.

"Well… this is a bit of a pickle isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson sighed, wiping down the table for the hundredth time in the last hour. "What on earth could have gotten into Sherlock?" she said with a sad shake of her head.

Molly shrugged. "I just don't know, Mrs. H. I've never seen him like that before. I was hoping you might have some idea."

"Sherlock was scared tonight," John offered. "More frightened than I've ever seen him. And not only that, he was feeling guilty. For someone who's so brilliant, Sherlock is an emotional child. He doesn't deal with fear and uncertainty very well. So first he was scared, then he was angry and then he was enraged. Out of control. He probably doesn't even realize what he said. He and Gabriel were like two children shouting at one another."

"Well that's all well and good," Mary sighed. "Except one of them really is a child and doesn't realize that his father didn't mean any of that." She kicked the book on the end of the couch, sending it flying. "Someone needs to go in there and tell him off!" She turned and looked at John who turned and looked at Mrs. Hudson who turned and looked at Molly. She tried turning, but there was no one left.

"Why do I always get elected?" Molly sighed.

"You're the one that wanted to sleep with him," Mary said. "There's always little trade-offs for that sort of thing. And as keeper of the cooze, you're the least likely to be annihilated." Molly wrinkled her nose at Mary's crudity. "Okay then… off you go."

**OoOoOo**

Molly walked slowly down the hall like a condemned man going to the gallows. Her shoes squeaked on the hardwood floors and she winced with every step. She wasn't sure why. It wasn't like she was trying to sneak up on him. In fact, he'd probably know she was there before she even got to the door. But she didn't want to incur his wrath or breathe fumes on the fire. Maybe they should just let him alone.

She'd almost expected the door to be locked, but when she tried the knob it opened easily. Sherlock stood at the window, staring out at the blackness. His violin lay discarded on the window seat. He'd obviously heard the door open, but he didn't turn. For probably the first time, at least for the first time while he was awake, Molly saw him still. Even when he was thinking, he was fidgeting. Now he just… stood there. It wasn't like him.

"Sherlock—" Molly started.

"No."

"What?"

"No. I know what you're going to say and you're absolutely right, but I don't want to talk about it."

"How do you know what I'm going to say?"

"What else could you say? I'm a horrible person and a horrible parent and I should just let Mycroft send him away to school where he'll be spared my arrogant and odious disposition." He still didn't turn.

Molly sighed and slid her hand along his shoulderblades. His body tensed but he didn't shrug her off this time. "That's not what I was going to say."

"Then you were thinking it."

"No… I wasn't. I was thinking that you're an idiot who was acting like a spoiled child." This finally made him turn, looking stricken. He didn't deny it.

"So you're saying that I shouldn't have been angry?" He raised his eyebrow and Molly stifled a giggle. He really was perplexed.

"No. Of course you should have. We all were. We were all also worried and scared and all those things that parents should be. But the difference between parents and children is that parents don't lose their tempers and hand over control of the situation. I hate to tell you, Holmes, but Gabe won that fight."

"What do you mean?"

"You stormed off looking like an arse and he's upstairs in bed having been cooed over, coddled and given chicken soup."

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together as he tried to work this out. "You think so?"

"Yes."

"But he was the one—"

"Yes."

"Oh he's good."

"Yes." Molly giggled and got up on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek. "He learned to manipulate from the best. Of course… you did fall for it."

"Well so did you! I'm sure you were up there petting him and comforting him."

"Well, I didn't say he wasn't truly hurt. You said you hated him, Sherlock. That's… pretty… awful."

"But I didn't mean it. He knows I didn't mean it. And besides, he said he hated me too." Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms defiantly. "It's not like I hit him or anything."

Molly shook her head, a mirthless chuckle hiding behind her hand. "Oh Sherlock, believe me. Words hurt worse. Yours especially. I'm sure that deep down Gabriel knows that you didn't mean any of what you said. That you let your temper, fear and frustration run away with you. It doesn't make those words hurt any less." She flopped down on the window seat and pulled her knees up under her chin. "He probably also feels that when someone lashes out in a mask of anger, unfettered by the usual inhibitions, that they'll tell you the truth."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You do hate Irene for leaving you here alone with this child for whom you've had to give up so much. When you're confused about what to do, there is no mother to ask for help. You hate her for not being here to answer Gabriel's questions about her and about how he got here. And sometimes you do hate Gabe, just like you hate me and just like you hate John, for completely reordering your life and shifting all your priorities around until you seem unrecognizable to yourself."

"I could never really hate…"

She laughed. "Don't get so defensive. It's not a bad thing. You can only really hate someone you love. And it's not a lot. Just a little. Kind of like tea, actually."

"Tea? What has tea got to do with this other than the fact that I'd kill someone for a cup right now."

"You know how Earl Grey tastes when it has too much sugar? It sours in your mouth and you can't drink it. You have to have a little bit of that bitterness to make it good. To make it sweeter." Molly gazed out the window. "A bit like you, actually."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled. "They used to ask me—"

"They?"

"You know, Mike, Mary… everyone at Bart's. They used to ask me how I could be so in love with you when you're probably the most arrogant, insufferable dick ever conceived." She giggled.

"I do hope this has a point."

She glanced at him sideways, her signature 'cat that ate the canary grin' on her face. "I like Earl Grey."

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel woke up gasping for breath. He hated that feeling. When a dream gets jerked out so fast that you can't remember what it was about, only that it was scary. It felt like falling. He sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was. His eyes felt sticky and swollen and he could barely breathe through his nose. His bedclothes were all twisted around as if he'd tossed and turned the whole night. He felt sweaty and uncomfortable. Then, he remembered what had happened before he went to sleep. The fight. That terrible fight with his dad. He was waking up to the horrible realization that his dad hated him.

Gabe felt sick. He wanted to toss up, but there was nothing in his stomach. He'd barely eaten any of Mrs. Hudson's chicken soup. What would happen to him now? Would he have to go back to St. Christopher's? He winced at the thought, feeling the shallow scar across his back itch. Or maybe Uncle Mycroft would put him on a train and take him to one of those schools where all the kids have to sleep there. Like in Harry Potter, only without magic. Maybe he could go live with Doctor Molly, he thought, a hopeful fluttering beginning in his belly. No, then he'd have to see his dad all the time.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out the crumpled picture of his mother, staring up at him in the dark. Can you miss somebody you've never met? He sure wished she was here to talk to right now. If she was alive, maybe she would come back and take him away! They could run away and have amazing adventures together! Maybe she wasn't dead and was really just hiding out in some underground spy network or even living in a palace in some faraway land where she was the queen and Gabe could be her adoring little prince. Maybe she would love him.

Suddenly, Gabriel heard the doorknob turning and he slumped back against the pillows, pulling the covers up to his chin and pretending to be asleep. A narrow blade of light cut the room in two and a long silhouette was reflected. Gabe recognized the shadow of his father and he pulled the covers tighter around him, wrapping himself in the safety of a wool blanket and squeezing his eyes shut.

"I know you aren't asleep, Gabriel. I can hear your breathing pattern." Sherlock's deep voice resonated off the walls in the room, sounding like that thunderous dragon Gabe had been running from on the beach. He thought it best not to answer and just watched as his father closed the door and came to sit on the edge of the bed. "That's fine. You don't have to talk to me. Just listen." Sherlock didn't say anything for the longest time and for a second, Gabriel thought it was one of those times where his dad thought he was talking but nothing was said out loud. Then he cleared his throat. "I suppose I don't have to tell you that apologizing is one of the most difficult things for me. It is a repulsive practice that leaves a film of bile on the back of my throat but since I always mean what I say, I've rarely had to employ such empty words of sentiment."

Gabriel was confused by the vocabulary and wrinkled his nose. "What?"

"What I mean to say is that I don't like apologizing when I know that it's merely a courtesy that I am offering someone else in order to make amends. Like when you had to apologize to Ms. Barrett. But, I really hate it when I have been truly and utterly… wrong. Oh God, that leaves a bitter taste."

Gabriel sat up in the bed. "It's okay. Just spit it out. That's what I do."

"Gabriel. I am… so…terribly sorry for what I said to you. And for what I said about your mother. It wasn't true. I didn't mean it. I was frightened and angry and I let my temper get the best of me."

Gabriel stared at him with wide, expectant eyes. He didn't say anything in response, so Sherlock kept talking.

"I admit that at times I do feel… out of sorts. My life is unrecognizable from the way it used to be and sometimes I do miss it. I miss being able to run with a case whenever I feel like it. Or not eat or sleep or talk for days. Being alone in my own head, tromping through my mind palace. Or taking risks. But as much as I miss it, as much as I love it… I will always love you more. Gabriel Holmes, you are the best parts of me and the best thing I've ever done. And because I didn't do that alone, I owe your mother an immeasurable debt of gratitude. Not just for giving you to me, but for trusting me to love you the way in which you deserve." Sherlock went into his pocket and pulled out a long envelope. "I brought you something. I've been carrying it with me in my coat all this time, trying to find the best time to give it to you. And I figure that now is the best worst time since I've behaved so abominably. Perhaps your mother's words will soothe any wounds I might have caused you tonight."

Sherlock opened the envelope and pulled out a letter. "At the remains of your mother's house, there was a lock box with three letters. One was addressed to Mycroft, telling him of your existence and location. Another was addressed to me and the third was for you. She probably thought you'd be older when you saw this letter. Would you like me to read it to you?" Gabriel nodded and Sherlock opened the letter and began to read:

_My darling boy,_

_I have no idea what your name is. I wish I had gotten to at least do that much for you, but circumstances did not permit. Only know that you will forever be my darling boy. If you're reading this letter then I am gone and you have been left in the care of your father. For this, again I must apologize. Sherlock Holmes is the most ridiculous, insufferable, arrogant and unpleasant man anyone would ever have the misfortune of meeting. He is also the bravest, most intelligent, wisest and probably the most genuinely kind man I've ever known. Well… to be fair I haven't kept company with many kind men. You were left at St. Christopher's Convent because like a blind fool, I thought it would be better for you. I, myself, was there for a time, just after your birth. It was there that my death sentence was dealt and I did not want to drag you through the pain of losing your parent slowly. Now that I'm finally at the end of my luck, even Sherlock Holmes can't save me, but perhaps he can save you. _

_Please understand, dear one. I never meant to leave you alone. Perhaps with my death, my love will be requited through you. _

_Oceans of love,_

_Your mother_

Sherlock finished and re-folded the letter, handing it to Gabriel. "She was ill, Gabe. Too ill to care for you and too ill to come to me. That's why she left you. It wasn't because she didn't love you. Or because she was stupid or afraid."

Gabriel crawled out from under the covers and threw himself against Sherlock, hugging him tightly, holding on until his tears were wetting his father's shirt. "I'm so sorry, Daddy! I don't hate you! I didn't mean to say that."

"Of course I know that, silly boy. I don't hate you either. I guess we both have to work on not saying things that we don't really mean." He embraced the boy again, kissing the shorn curls at his temple. "Of course if you ever scare me like that again, you'll have to be destroyed."

"I didn't mean to, Daddy. I was just playing and I lost track of where I was."

"But you shouldn't have gone out there alone in the first place," Sherlock sighed.

"Okay," Gabriel said, sniffling. "I promise."

**OoOoOo**

It was just after dawn when Molly awakened to a cold, empty bed. She looked around, her eyes stinging with the bright sunlight streaming through the window. With a yawn and a stretch, she padded down the hallway to where the door to Gabriel's room stood ajar. She said a silent prayer that the child hadn't taken off down the beach in the middle of the night and slowly opened the door fully. There she saw Sherlock lying on his back on Gabriel's bed. His little boy lay sprawled across his chest, their fingers intertwined.


	35. Birds, Bees and Diagrams, pt 1

**A/N: Sorry this took a while. I've been spreading myself pretty thin with writing projects, both fanfiction and "real" stuff. So please pardon the delay. This chapter was getting a little lengthy, so its really going to be in two parts. But its fluffy and fun. Hope you like! As always, feed my muse with reviews and do check out my Sherlolly stories if you haven't. I think they'll hit the spot. ;) Thanks to everyone who so faithfully read and review! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.**

When John woke up the next morning and wandered into the lounge, the only ones up were Mrs. Hudson and Gabriel. The former was in the kitchen making breakfast and the latter on the balcony. Mrs. Hudson handed him a cup of tea as he meandered past. "Good morning, dear," she said.

John smiled and took a sip of the heavenly elixir. "Thank you," he sighed.

"Breakfast in a few, if you like. Do you think the others will make it down?"

"Mary's in the shower and I think I heard Sherlock moving around." Mrs. Hudson looked toward the sliding door where she could see Gabriel playing on the porch. John pulled up at one of the kitchen chairs and followed her gaze, picking at the little triangles of toast she'd already placed on the table. "How's Gabriel this morning?"

"He seems fine. I mean, I had to give him a little paracetamol for that arm, but otherwise no worse for wear."

"No, I mean, are he and Sherlock okay?"

"I would assume so. I woke up in the middle of the night—my hip was acting up and I needed one of my soothers—and Sherlock was asleep in Gabriel's room. So I guess they worked it all out."

John nodded, adding a little more milk to his tea and rising from the table. He walked out the door to see what was going on with the kid. He looked okay, considering the previous night. "Hey, Gabe. All right?"

"Good morning, John." The little boy was squatted down in that impossible pose that only children could accomplish. He was examining something in the corner of the porch.

"Shouldn't you be wearing something warmer than your pajamas?"

"I'm not cold," he answered. "Come look at this, John." He waved the doctor over, pointing at his new discovery. In the corner of the porch where the railing came to a sharp ninety-degree angle, a bird had made a nest and left two small eggs inside. "I think it must have fallen out of the tree."

John knelt beside him. "I think you're right. Don't touch it."

"Why not? I was going to bring it inside. It's too cold for the babies out here."

"Well if you touch the nest then the mummy bird won't come back."

Gabriel chewed on his lower lip, considering this new information. "Why not?"

"Well, because she'll be able to smell the human on it I guess. And she'll be afraid."

"Oh." He rocked back and sat down on his backside, legs crossed and watching the nest intently. "So baby birds come from eggs. Like the eggs we eat for breakfast?"

"There can be birds in those eggs," John replied with a nod. "Baby chickens."

"Eeww… so when we eat eggs for breakfast we're eating dead birds?" He scrunched his face up in an expression of disgusted confusion. He was starting to get into a phase where he asked questions about everything. Every now and then John was surprised at the things which Gabriel had never been exposed to. The concept of the egg-chicken relationship was apparently one of those things.

"No no… we only eat the ones that aren't fertilized."

"Ferti-whaty?"

"Fertilized. The boy chicken didn't fertilize the eggs, so there's no chicken inside."

"I don't get it."

"Well see the girl chicken makes the eggs inside her body and then when a boy chicken fancies her…" John paused, suddenly realizing that he was about to tread into unpleasant territory. "They get together and… make chicks that will hatch from the eggs."

"Oh." He seemed to accept this answer and went back to watching the birdnest. John breathed a sigh of relief and started to get up. "So are people hatched from eggs too?"

John stopped, gripping his teacup tightly in his hand. "Kind of."

"Well are they or aren't they?"

"Well… I suppose… technically babies grow from eggs."

Gabriel seemed to consider this a moment, his nose crinkled and nibbling his lip. "So my mom kept me in a nest and I hatched?" John couldn't help laughing. This irritated Gabriel and he narrowed his eyes. "It's not funny, John. How did I get in the egg?"

"Gabe…" he chuckled. "You weren't in an egg like that with a shell and everything. It's an egg that was inside your mother."

"Oh." There was another long silence. John could almost hear the cogs turning in the little boy's head and suddenly he knew what the next question was inevitably going to be. He had to think fast. There must be some way to end this conversation and redirect the child. Despite the fact that he was a doctor, he did not want to be the one to answer Gabriel's questions about where babies came from. "So how'd the egg get in there?"

"Uhm… well… girls are born with eggs in them."

"Boys don't have eggs?"

"No."

"What do boys have?"

"Uhmm…" Think, Watson! Think! "Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails," he replied finally, remembering a children's verse from his childhood.

Gabe giggled. "They do not. Come on, John. What do little boys have instead of eggs?"

John sighed. "I really think that's a question you need to ask your dad, Gabriel."

"Why?"

"Because it's complicated. And as he's so fond of telling us, he's very smart."

Gabriel shrugged and went back to looking at the bird nest. "Do you think they'll be okay out here?"

"Definitely. Their eggs and all those leaves and twigs in that nest will keep them warm. And when their mum comes back, she'll sit on them."

"What?"

"The mummy bird sits on the eggs to keep them warm until they hatch."

Gabriel laughed again and stood up, shaking his head. "My mum didn't sit on me, did she?"

Considering what John knew about Irene Adler, he put nothing past her. "Probably not." He feigned a shiver and hugged himself. "Oi… it has gotten really chilly out here this morning. Let's go in, eh Gabe?"

The two of them went inside to where Mrs. Hudson was laying out scones and jam. Mary had joined her and was putting on a pot of coffee. She always preferred coffee to tea. John sometimes thought that described her personality in a nutshell. "Gabe, darling," Mary called. "There you are. Don't you want something to eat?"

He shrugged. "Just some milk, please. I'll eat when my dad comes down."

"All right. He should be down in a few minutes. Molly said he was in the shower." Gabriel nodded and took the offered cup of milk from Mary. "You know, I noticed that there was a zoo in town. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"A zoo? I never been to the zoo before!" Gabe said excitedly. "Do you think they have komodo dragons there?" John smiled. Komodo dragons had become Gabriel's new favorite animal. He was convinced that at night, while everyone was sleeping, that they grew exponentially in size until they were the giant beasts from his fairy tale book.

"I'm almost sure of it," Mary laughed.

"Hooray!" he cheered, hugging Mrs. Hudson since she was the closest at hand. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "We get to go to the zoo!"

"That's what I hear," Mrs. Hudson replied.

"You'll come too won't you?"

"Of course I will, dear." He giggled and guzzled the whole glass of milk before sprinting up the stairs to find Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson watched as he ran, shaking her head. "I just can't get over it."

"What's that?" John asked, threading his arm through Mary's.

"That little boy. To think that he sprung from the same well of genetics that created Sherlock and Mycroft. He's such a sweet and thoughtful thing, if not mischievous. I often wonder where he got it from."

"Oh I don't know," Mary said. "Sherlock is sweet and thoughtful. Sometimes."

"Niceish," John said. "That's the word I use to describe him. Gabriel is what Sherlock would have been if someone had bothered to try and understand him."

**OoOoOo**

Gabriel peeked around the corner of the door to his father's room. Molly was inside making up the bed, humming to herself. She started when Gabe knocked and walked inside. "Hi Doctor Molly."

"Good morning, Gabriel," she said, offering him a sunny smile and a big hug. "Feeling better this morning?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Good! Then you can help me with this." She showed him how to pull the sheet taut and tuck it under the corner of the mattress. "What would you like to do today?" she asked, making conversation as they worked on the bed.

"Mary says there's a zoo in town. I hope we get to go. She says they might even have Komodo dragons."

"Oooh… that sounds exciting."

"I know," he said. "Did you know there were baby birds on the porch outside?"

"No! When did we get birds?"

Gabriel shrugged. "I don't know. John said they probably fell out of the tree beside the porch."

"Oh how terrible for them. Do they have a mummy?"

"Probably. John said if we don't touch them that she'll probably come back." She nodded and fluffed her pillow, then Sherlock's which she then tossed to Gabriel. "Doctor Molly, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, darling."

"Well John said that they baby birds hatch from eggs inside their mums. And that human babies come from eggs inside their mums. But… how do the babies get in there, anyway?"

Molly punched the pillow just a little harder than necessary. "Well… uhm… I think that's probably a question for your dad."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and flopped down on the edge of the bed with an exasperated sigh. "Is he the only person that knows the answer to that question? I asked John and he said I had to ask my dad. Now you're telling me the same thing. Is it some big secret?"

"No, it's not really a secret, but it's something he'll want to tell you about himself. Trust me." She smiled at his pouty face and leaned over to kiss his crown. "I know, darling. It's very difficult being a child sometimes. But you'll survive." She tossed the last pillow into place and started toward the door. "I'm going down for some breakfast. You coming?"

"I'll be down in a minute. I already had some milk. I think I'll just wait for my dad."

"Oh." Molly shrugged. "Suit yourself then."

Gabriel sat on the bed waiting for Sherlock for several minutes. He could hear the water running in the shower and his father's cough every so often, but it felt like he'd been sitting there waiting forever. He finally decided that he couldn't wait one more second and wandered into the bathroom. "Dad!" he shouted over the noise of the shower. After all, he didn't want to scare him.

Obviously Sherlock didn't hear him, as no response came from behind the curtain, but a couple of minutes later, the water turned off and Sherlock pulled it back to find his child sitting on the closed toilet lid, staring up at him expectantly. "Uhm… hello."

"Hi, dad!" Gabriel replied brightly.

"Something you needed?" he asked, obviously trying to ignore the fact that he was totally naked.

"I wanted to ask you a question."

"Uhm… okay. Can it possibly wait until I'm dressed?"

Gabriel nodded. "Sure, dad." He hopped off of the toilet and made his way back into the bedroom. He sat down on the windowseat and stared out the window while he waited. His dad had looked very embarrassed when he came out of the shower. Gabe often wondered what the big deal was about being naked. Everybody took baths, right? Not to mention that he and his father were both boys. They had the same equipment, so what was the big deal?

When Sherlock emerged from the bath, he had a towel wrapped around his waist and looked braced for whatever question Gabriel had managed to concoct. "All right, Gabe. What did you want to ask me?"

"Okay, you know how chickens lay eggs and then baby chicks hatch out of them?"

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in an expression that Gabe had come to realize meant that he was trying very hard not to explode. "Yeah? Please tell me you didn't scare ten years off my life to ask me which one came first."

"No," Gabe said, the joke completely passing over his head. "Do human babies come out of eggs?"

"Not exactly."

"John said they did."

"Well, I suppose that technically they do. But it's not exactly the same thing."

"John said that girls have the eggs inside them when they're born. Is that true?" He crossed his arms and stared up at his father, watching for any signs that he might lie to him.

"It is."

"So Doctor Molly and Mary have eggs in them right now."

"Yes."

"Are they white with shells and everything?"

Sherlock thought this over. "No. Not at all."

"So what do they look like?"

"No idea."

"Why not?"

"Well… because they're inside their bodies."

"So they don't lay them like birds?"

Sherlock broke. He laughed out loud, unable to help it. Gabriel looked disappointed and he cleared his throat at his father. "Oh… sorry. Ahem… no. They don't lay them like birds. The eggs stay in their bodies until… uhm… well until…"

"Until when?"

"Until they make a baby. Then… you know… the baby—you know what? Why don't you ask John. He's the doctor."

"He said to ask you."

Sherlock grumbled. "Of course he did."

"Okay, so if girls have eggs, but boys don't—"

"No. Boys don't have eggs."

"Then what do boys have?" Gabriel looked at him with an intense stare that dared him to refuse to answer. What had gotten into everyone? They always answered his questions before!

"Uhm… well… boys have…" Sherlock stammered, looking at the floor in a way that suggested he was looking for a trapdoor that he might fall through. "You know… boys have… a…"

"I got that part, dad. Boys have a penis. I know that." He rolled his eyes and shook his head in a way that was so familiar that it took Sherlock aback. "I've known that since I was four."

"Oh… sorry… I didn't mean to insult your intelligence."

Before Gabriel could ask any more questions, Molly poked her head around the corner. "Hey guys, are you planning to eat? Everything's going to be cold if you don't come on."

"We'll be right there," Sherlock answered quickly, pulling a button-up around his torso. She smiled sweetly and retreated back downstairs. "Let's finish this conversation later, okay? Go on down and get your breakfast. I'm right behind you when I find my trousers." Gabriel gave a disappointed nod, but obeyed, going downstairs to join the others. But he wasn't going to give up. If everyone was so keen to keep this bit of information under wraps, it must be pretty interesting.

Gabriel hated not knowing something.


	36. Birds, Bees and Diagrams, pt 2

**A/N: Sorry this took so long, kids. I'm going to blame S3E3 Flu. Thanks to the reviews, comments and reads. I'm all snuggly whenever I read them. I hope you enjoy. This chapter is so fluffy its crazy. It is possible that there are some trigger-ish things going on at the end. So be warned.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel and Catastrophe.**

It wasn't until Gabe surprised Molly in the shower that night that she decided to take matters into her own hands. She blew down the stairs in her dressing gown like an angry cyclone and into the lounge where Sherlock, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were playing cards. "Okay, that's it."

All three regarded her with a slight nod. "Hello, Molly, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, discarding. "I thought you were in the bath."

"I was," Molly replied through gritted teeth. "I was… interrupted." She stood there for another minute, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge her presence. This wasn't exactly something she wanted to talk to him about in front of the others. "Ahem…Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he asked, picking up another card, then looking around the room, examining the others. She could tell he was deducing their hands. Hence why she had refused to play an hour ago when they started.

"Can I talk to you for a second, please?" she asked, her voice taking on that sweeter than honey timbre.

"Go ahead. I'm listening," he said, giving Mycroft an intent stare as he discarded.

"Uhm… no. Alone."

Sherlock sighed. "Can it wait until the game is done? I'm winning."

"Over-confidence, Sherlock," Mycroft mused. He picked up the card Sherlock had discarded and added it to his hand with a smug grin.

Molly leaned over, plucking the cards from his hand and tossing them on the table between them. "No," she said before storming off to the porch and slamming the door behind her.

"Someone's going to the woodshed," Mrs. Hudson said as Sherlock rose, following Molly out the door.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and stared at Molly with an annoyed expression. "Well?"

"You have got to do something about Gabriel," she said. Her fists were balled at her sides and her jaw clenched in a way that forced the words out.

"What do you mean? What did he do now?" His shoulders shrank and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought he was in bed asleep."

"So did I. I remember kissing him goodnight. So I'm lying there in the tub, bubbles up to my chin, glass of wine in hand. I had just finished washing my face and I had a bit of a headache, so I lay back and put the warm flannel over my face. Have you ever had that feeling that someone was watching you?"

"All the time."

"Yeah, so I had that feeling. I sat up and opened my eyes and there was Gabe, practically in the bath with me! He screamed, I screamed… it was awful!" Molly hid her face, hot with embarrassment.

Sherlock laughed. He couldn't stop himself and even Molly had to smile a little at his amusement. "I'm sorry, Molly… I can just picture your face."

"Yeah, laugh it up, baby. But…" she paused, her eyes darting around to make sure no one was listening. "I think he was watching me in the bath."

"Well I wouldn't hold that against him," Sherlock said. "The same thought crossed my mind once or twice."

"Funny, Sherlock. You're going to have to talk to him. It's starting to get out of hand."

"What is?"

"Gabriel and his… questioning. Obviously he's trying to work things out, but that's… a bit of a violation! I mean, he didn't see anything. I don't think. I was pretty well covered with soap suds, but still."

"So what exactly do you think I should do, Molly? Pull out the encyclopedias? Draw a picture? Diagrams?" He gasped and his eyes lit up with inspiration. "You could show him a body at the morgue!"

Molly stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"Why not? It would be better than a model."

"I don't think the sexual habits of dead people are what he's asking about!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the collar. "Look, Holmes. The kid wants to know where babies come from and he's going to find out, one way or another. After all, he's your kid. Now I'm not suggesting that you give him a play by play or anything, but you have to tell him something or pretty soon he's going to be hiding in our closet to find out what all the racket is at night!"

"Fine. I'll talk to him," he said, rolling his eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Good," she said. "Just don't lie to him, okay? Those stupid stories that people tell their kids. I mean, my mum was great, but she wasn't forthcoming. I was scared to sit on public toilet seats until I was thirteen! And my grandmother wouldn't let us swim in the river with boys because she thought the sperm could swim long distances."

"Got it," Sherlock sighed, nervously tapping his foot.

"And make sure you don't yell at him or anything. I mean, he's not being bad. He's just curious."

"Right."

"And don't get how… you know… you get. All that technical language and drawing diagrams. He's only five. Be tactful."

"I'm always tactful."

**OoOoOo**

Sherlock poked his head around the doorframe, peering into the darkness to see if Gabriel was asleep in his bed. If he was, then he could put off talking to him until the morning and that would improve his disposition immensely. Sherlock, who had only recently discovered the joys of sex on the regular, was not particularly jazzed about having to talk about something so private. But Molly was right, he had to tell him something. And it was important to be truthful. He'd asked John earlier what he thought about Gabe's sudden interest. Wasn't it too early to talk about such things? John had explained, in a very clinical, doctor-y sort of way, that Gabriel was normal and that he should just give him an elementary understanding of how things worked. Of course, Sherlock was rarely satisfied with elementary understandings and would have to try very hard not to go overboard. "Gabriel?" he whispered, expecting to be met with a light snore.

"Dad? Is that you?"

Sherlock sighed, defeated. "Yes. Why are you still awake?"

"I couldn't sleep." Gabriel stammered. Sherlock could tell that he was trying to think of some explanation for being in the bath with Molly, fearing that he was about to be destroyed. "Uhm… I had to go to the loo… and I was still kind of asleep… and…"

"Before you go on concocting some odd story, I've already talked to Molly."

"Oh." Gabriel pulled the duvet up under his chin as Sherlock sat at the bedside. "Are you mad?"

"Of course not. For one thing, _mad_ would imply insanity. _Angry_ is the more appropriate word, but I am neither mad nor angry."

"Is Doctor Molly?"

"Not really. But you did scare ten years off of her life."

"Sorry."

"Well, we can discuss the impropriety of spying on people in the bathtub later. But I think you had some questions for me and I didn't really get a chance to answer them. So… fire away."

"Really?"

"Really. Ask whatever you want. But… I reserve the right to decline answering if I think the question is inappropriate for someone your age. Not that I won't ever answer it, but it may have to wait until you're a little older. Deal?"

"Deal." Gabriel sat up in bed and shook his father's hand. "Okay, I know what we have. What do girls have? Do they look like us… you know… there."

"Not at all. Their… equipment?" Sherlock scrunched up his face as if in pain. "Is all pretty much inside their body instead of outside like ours."

"Like the eggs."

"Exactly." Gabriel was silent and for a moment Sherlock actually held out hope that he was going to get away from this conversation without having to use any clinical terms or embarrassing descriptions.

"So they have the eggs, but they don't come out of their bodies like with birds. When do they come out then?"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh or smile. Gabriel was so sincere in his wonder, that he didn't want to make the child feel silly or embarrassed, but he was so matter of fact in his questioning. "Well the baby grows inside the egg until its ready to be born. And then the baby comes out of its mum."

"Yeah, Katie says the baby comes out the mummy's stomach. Is that what your bellybutton is for? Because I have one and I thought boys couldn't have babies." Taking him by surprise, Gabriel reached forward and pushed Sherlock's shirt aside, poking his bellybutton. "See, you have one too."

"Everyone does. That is not where babies come out. They come out of their mums through their… uhm…" He searched through his mind palace briefly, looking for a word somewhere between "vagina" and "love canal" and coming up horribly blank. "…birth canal?"

"What?"

"Her vagina, okay? Girls have vaginas. Boys have penises. There." Sherlock sighed, glad he'd finally gotten that out of the way. "And it's not in the mum's stomach. She has a special organ inside called a uterus. That's where the baby grows."

"Oh. Well… how does it get in there? Katie said her mum told her about a stork that brings the baby. Does the stork stick the baby in that u-thing you were talking about?"

"No. Storks are birds. They have nothing to do with babies."

"Oh. So Katie's mum is lying?"

"Yes."

"Lying isn't very nice."

"Agreed. Now lie down." Gabriel obeyed and Sherlock pulled the duvet around his shoulders, tucking him in. "It's late." He smoothed the boy's hair away from his forehead, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against his temple.

"But I'm not done!" Gabriel said, his eyelids already heavy. "I have one more question."

"All right. One more, then."

"John said that boys and girls have to get together to make the baby. What does he mean?"

And there it is. Think, genius. Think. "Well I assume by 'getting together' he means that the male and female parties have to _be_ together for it to happen."

"Just together? Like me and Doctor Molly were together when she came in to say good night? Or like when John and Mary were sitting beside each other at dinner? That doesn't seem right."

"Well of course it's more than just… together. Boys make sperm in their bodies and the sperm has to get together with the eggs in the girl's body. So they have to be… uhm… close."

"Close?"

"Really close."

"Oh. So like when you and Doctor Molly kissed earlier on the beach?"

"No… much closer than that." Sherlock could feel his ears burning. Blushing did not even begin to describe the sensation that was currently taking place. Weird. Embarrassment was a very alien concept to him. He didn't really care much for social norms or niceties and therefore the concept of embarrassment was totally lost on him. However, the piercing stare of his son, the sensitive topic of conversation and the unfamiliarity of trying to use tact had combined to create a viscous solution of mortification.

"Oh, so like when you and Doctor Molly are fighting without your clothes on."

Sherlock started to nod in agreement, then paused. "Wait. What?"

"Remember that day that John and Mary took me to the museum. The day before I broke my arm?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, when we were leaving, I forgot my scarf because Doctor Molly came in and we were talking. I didn't remember until after the cab got there, but Mary made me go back up and get it. I went up to my room to get it because it wasn't on the hook by the door, but it wasn't there either and I thought maybe I left it in your room. So I was going into your room to look for it and the door was open a little bit and I saw you and Doctor Molly fighting. She didn't have any clothes on at all and you were—"

"Okay. That's enough. I get the picture."

"So is that how it happens?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose." He thought for a moment. He didn't want Gabriel to think that he and Molly were fighting. For some strange reason, this bothered him. He supposed it had something to do with not wanting Gabriel to associate sex with violence. "But we weren't fighting."

Gabriel giggled. "It looked like it to me."

"Well we weren't," Sherlock replied. "And you shouldn't go spying on people in their rooms like that."

"Well I didn't mean to."

"I know, but for future reference, closed doors are generally closed for a reason. That goes for bathroom doors too. While your body is nothing to be ashamed of, it's also private. It belongs to you and you shouldn't let just anyone see or touch it. And certainly not without your permission."

Gabriel thought this over for a long while. Sherlock could tell he was processing and that more questions were forming in his little brain. "What if they say you have to?"

"Have to what?"

"Have to let them touch you. What are you supposed to do then?"

"It depends on who _'them'_ is. Letting your family or your doctor is ok." Gabriel seemed troubled. Before the questions had been innocent curiosity and he was amused by the answers. Now his tone was different. He was perplexed by the concept of privacy. He chewed his lip and twirled a fingertip in one of the long curls at the back of his neck. "But Gabe, if anyone, I don't care who they are, touches you in a way that you think is wrong, you have every right to make them stop. And to tell someone."

"Make them?"

"Absolutely."

"What if I'm scared?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. "Then you tell me and _I_ will make them stop. You'll find that there are very few things in the whole of the world of which I am afraid. However, one of the only things I fear is that someone or something might hurt you. So if anyone ever does, you let me know and I promise that they will not only stop, but they will regret it."

Before Gabriel could respond, Cat bounded into the room, leaping up onto his bed and licking his face. "Cat…" he giggled, pushing the dog away.

"Cat! Get down!" Sherlock commanded. The dog turned, hearing her name, then continued nuzzling under Gabe's chin.

"Can't she stay?" Gabriel begged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dogs aren't supposed to sleep in beds…"

"Please? Uncle Mycroft said you used to have a dog that slept with you."

"Fine. Whatever." He tucked the blankets around Gabriel once more. Cat settled down beside him with her head on his leg, staring up at Sherlock with smug brown eyes. "Good night, Gabriel," he said, pressing his lips to the child's brow.

"You have to kiss Cat too."

He shook his head and kissed Cat's nose. She licked him back affectionately.

"Love you, Dad," Gabriel murmured, snuggling under the covers.

"Love you more… child-thing."

**OoOoOo**

Molly was nodding over yet another tawdry romance novel when Sherlock finally decided to retire. "Hi!" she chirped. "How did it go?" Her smile faded when she noticed that Sherlock looked perplexed. Almost angry, but not quite there yet. There was something praying on that big brain of his. "Uh oh. What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe something important. In any case, I may be taking a little trip to St. Christopher's Convent."


End file.
